


Guitar Case

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Octavia Street musings [15]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Fluff, Misunderstandings, probably eventual smut, this is me after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-20 00:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: 2013 ish. Nick is hiding something from Ilsa. Robin is on the case.





	1. The Guitar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a lovely mood board [here](https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/184227463885/look-you-guys-adiscoveryofmoodboards-made-this) !

Ilsa passed her phone across the table to show Robin, sliding her coffee cup out of the way to do so. Robin put her latte down and peered at it. “Who’s that?”

Ilsa ducked sideways slightly as a woman carrying a toddler and manhandling a pushchair squeezed past. The cafe was bustling with Saturday morning shoppers pausing in their endeavours to take on energy-giving caffeine. Sunshine streamed through the front windows and glinted off the shop signs on the other side of Wandsworth High Street. It was promising to be a warm day.

“That’s Richard,” Ilsa said, a twinkle in her eye. “Good-looking, isn’t he? He’s new at our firm. He’s about a year older than you.”

Robin grinned at her. “And how come you have a photo of him on your phone?” She looked at the picture again. He was quite good-looking, with brown eyes, a rounded face and floppy hair and a slightly lopsided smile.

Ilsa laughed. “All the new recruits get assigned a buddy who’s been there ages. He got me. I have to send his photo and a little bio round on the work intranet so people welcome him. He’s from Manchester, just moved down. He finished his law degree and passed the bar, went travelling for a bit, then he was living in Manchester with his girlfriend. They broke up about a year ago and he felt like he was drifting a bit after that, so he’s moved to London for a new start.”

She left her phone sat in front of Robin and picked up her coffee again and took a swig, gazing at her friend over the rim of her cup expectantly.

Robin stared back. “What?”

Ilsa put her cup down again. “You should go out with him,” she said. “Look at him, he’ll not be single long. The girls in admin are already fluttering and finding excuses to come and ask him questions. How many times can they lose his National Insurance number, realistically?”

“Oh, Ilsa, I don’t know...”

“Come on, Robin,” Ilsa wheedled. “You’re properly divorced now. There’s no reason not to. He needs someone to show him around London. He’s a fellow northerner. You’ll have so much in common.”

Robin sighed and looked at the phone again. Richard did look nice. His eyes were warm and friendly. And she had to admit that the thought of knowing another northerner in the big city was a draw, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe just a coffee.”

Ilsa squeaked with delight and snatched her phone up. “Excellent!” she cried. “I’ll send you his number.”

Robin giggled. “Have you got his star sign and his inside leg measurement, too?” she asked slyly.

Ilsa winked. “I’ll leave those to you,” she said, and Robin found herself blushing a little. _Don’t get your hopes up,_ she warned herself. But a little glow planted itself in her heart. He was good-looking, and if nothing else she’d be making a new friend, widening her circle of acquaintances.

“Come on,” she said. “I want to call in to the book shop and see if the book I ordered is here yet.”

Ilsa downed the last of her coffee. “And I promised Nick I’d bring home some pastries from the deli,” she said, standing. “He had to work this morning. You’re going to text Richard, right?”

Robin tossed her head a little. “Maybe,” she said, but a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. Ilsa spotted it and grinned to herself and said no more.

...

Nick took his tray and moved across the crowded hospital cafeteria to the table where Mark and Sian sat. They were the only faces he recognised in the melee. He grimaced as he sat down.

“Hi,” he said. “How come you two are here on a Saturday? And why is it so busy?”

Mark grinned at him and Sian waved her fingers, her mouth full of cake. “We’re not really here,” Mark replied. “Not in an official capacity, anyway. We’re writing a paper.”

Nick nodded. Sian swallowed her cake. “And Saturday is the only day we can do, unless we decide an evening might be better. How come you’re here?”

Nick pulled another face. “My latest intern needs more babysitting than most,” he said. “He rang me so often last time he did a Saturday, I thought I might just come in and follow him around for a few hours this morning. He knows his stuff, he just needs more confidence.”

Sian nodded. “He needs to grow a pair or he’ll not survive,” she said. “How are you?”

Nick nodded. “Good, yeah, you?” he replied. “What’s your paper about?”

“The effect of hormones on the immune system,” Mark said. “After all those papers that have come out on whether stress really does make you more prone to being ill, and whether man flu really is a thing, we thought it would be interesting to look at other hormones and how they play in, too.”

“Yeah,” Sian said. “Like insulin. Diabetics report a higher incidence of colds. But is that directly related to the effect of insulin imbalance on the immune system, or is it just that already battling another illness makes you more susceptible to catching a cold? Or even just spending more time at the doctor’s around sick people means you’re exposed to more germs?”

“Huh, interesting,” Nick said, taking a swig of his coffee. He glanced at his pager. “Wow, Sami’s managed almost half an hour on his own,” he said drily.

Mark chuckled. “Give him time,” he said. “We were all new once. I’m going to get back to hunting down studies, Sian. But yes, let’s talk about finding an evening for the actual writing, once we’ve gathered all the studies together. Might be quieter.”

“You could come to mine,” Sian said. “I’ve got a separate office in my flat, still vaguely mulling over starting some private counselling, but it’s just a study at the moment.”

Mark nodded. “Sounds good,” he said. “Thursdays are usually pretty good for me.”

“I’ll check my diary for this week,” Sian promised. “I’ll catch you up, just got to finish my coffee.”

Mark nodded again and set off back to his office. Sian scooped her last mouthful of cake onto her fork. “How’s Ilsa?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, she’s good, thanks,” he said. “This paper sounds fascinating.”

Sian nodded, swallowing. “We’ve discussed the idea of working together before, but never got round to it,” she said. “But this idea has captured us both. It’s an interesting crossover, the area between immunology and endocrinology.”

Nick put his head on one side, thinking. “It has a bit of a crossover with gut health, too,” he said. “There was a paper out last year on whether hormone imbalances affect the porousness of the gut and therefore the susceptibility to illness.”

Sian winked at him. “Do you want in?”

Nick laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I’ve got enough on my plate anyway.”

“Seriously, though.” Sian leaned forward. “Now we’re all more senior and the shifts are getting less crappy, this is your time to get into stuff like this, write more papers. And we’d value your input.”

Nick smiled at her. “I’ll consult for you, but I don’t really want to immerse myself in it,” he said. “I’ve got a queue of things I want to research, and I quite fancy doing something away from work.”

“Away from work? For a doctor?” Sian teased. “Like what?”

“Oh, you know,” Nick said vaguely, but he flushed a little.

Sian looked at him shrewdly. “You’ve got a plan, Dr Herbert, I know you have,” she said. “What are you up to?”

Nick looked down at his coffee and back up. “It’s a bit silly,” he admitted. “Well, soppy.”

Sian grinned. “Go on.”

“Well, you know - maybe you don’t - that me and Ilsa do karaoke sometimes?”

Sian nodded. “I seem to recall I have endured the odd duet on nights out.”

Nick chuckled. “Well, I always wanted to learn guitar. I had a guitar at uni but never got far. Think it’s still in mum and dad’s attic. I thought I might take lessons, and then I could—” he was blushing hard now “—serenade Ilsa properly. Surprise her.”

Sian sat back. “God, you are just the perfect husband,” she said warmly. “I think Ilsa will love that. You’ll melt her. How are you going to keep it a secret, though? A guitar isn’t a small instrument, and you’ll need to practise.”

Nick nodded. “I could keep it here at the office, practise after hours,” he said. “My new office is on the end of a corridor, shouldn’t be too disruptive. Just need a tutor.”

Sian sat up suddenly, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Chris!” she cried.

“What?”

“The guy in the flat below me. He’s new, just moved in. His girlfriend is German. They teach at the language college near our block of flats, and he teaches guitar in the evenings to make ends meet. He plays really well, I’ve heard him, and they keep bringing all the neighbours plates of these lovely German biscuits Andrea bakes by way of apology for the noise, which they don’t need to do at all, I don’t mind it.”

Nick looked at her. “Sounds perfect,” he said. “Can you get me his number?”

“I can do better than that. Come round on Thursday with Mark, throw some ideas at us for this paper, and I’ll take you down and introduce you to them. I think he’s fairly fully booked, but he won’t say no if I take you, he’s forever apologising for the noise of lessons.”

“Sounds just perfect,” Nick said again, eagerly. “Let me know what time.”

Sian nodded and glanced at her watch. “Must get back,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Nick waved her off, and looked at his watch too, wondering if he had time to get to Hackney and back before Ilsa finished shopping. He supposed he ought to check his parents still actually had his old guitar. He got his phone out of his pocket and dialled the number of his childhood home.

 


	2. The Board Meeting

Strike dropped the teaspoon into the kitchenette sink and passed Robin her tea.

“Thanks.” Robin cupped her hands around the mug and inhaled the steam while Strike carried his across to the sofa. He glared at it for a moment and then lowered his heavy frame onto it, rolling his eyes at the fart noises.

“So, how’s the week looking?” he asked her. This was their Monday morning ritual now. Robin jokingly called them board meetings.

Robin surveyed the Gantt chart on her computer screen. “Well, you’ve got a few hours to put in this week surveilling that strip club.”

Strike rolled his eyes again. It wasn’t his favourite job, hanging around strip clubs trying to look like he might be interested in buying drugs, but at least he could smoke.

“I’ve still got to pin down Mad Max,” Robin continued. This made Strike scowl.

“I really wish you’d let Barclay take that,” he said. “Or me.”

“You’re busy, and I’m not,” Robin said. “And it’s pointless to contract him out to Barclay and have me sit here doing nothing.”

“I don’t like you tailing him,” Strike grumbled.

“I know you don’t, but his wife came to me, and I’m being careful.”

“He looks like the sort of guy who’d hurt a woman without thinking twice,” Strike went on. “I’ve met plenty of them, remember?”

Robin nodded. “I know. But he hasn’t hurt his wife. Well, not much.” Strike raised an eyebrow at her. “You know, he’s pushed her a bit, been intimidating. But he’s not hit her.”

“So she says.”

“Why would she lie?”

Strike sighed. “I don’t know, Robin, but women do. They make excuses, explain it away.”

Robin paused for a moment, remembering how much of Matthew’s behaviour she had excused. He’d never hit her, but he had put her down and belittled her achievements and her job at every opportunity, eroded her self-confidence. She could see now what a small step it was to forgiving outbursts of temper, the odd shove, a doorframe...

She gave herself a mental shake. Strike was watching her carefully.

“I know,” she said. “Believe me, I do. Matt never hit me, but he had other ways of controlling, intimidating. I do get it. But that’s why I’m best placed to help Mad Max’s wife. She trusts me. And whatever he’s up to, it’ll hopefully give her more ammunition, more courage to leave him.” _If I had only left Matthew sooner..._

Strike knew when he was defeated. “Okay, but please, don’t follow him anywhere seedy, or after dark. It’s not worth risking your safety for. Let Barclay do those.” He pushed the thought of what he’d like to do to Matthew from his mind.

Robin nodded her agreement. “I will. And I’ll be alert,” she promised. “You’ve also got some evenings to do watching Mr Money show off his latest pretty secretary in all of London’s trendiest night spots. Your blue suit should be ready to be picked up from the dry cleaner’s this morning. And Ilsa’s popping by on her way to work on Friday to run through the specific finance laws for that fraud case.”

“Busy, busy,” Strike said. “I’ve got a new one for you, too.”

Robin looked up, still cradling her tea. “Oh, yeah?” She took a sip.

Strike grinned. “You’ll never guess who rang me over the weekend.”

“Go on.”

“A weekend call. Which well-paying client never had any concept of the detectives at his beck and call having private lives?”

“Not Mr Suspicious?”

Strike laughed at her incredulous look. “The very same.”

“I thought he decided Redhead was behaving?”

“Oh, Robin, you are very behind the curve. Way behind.” Strike teased. He leaned across to pass her his phone. “Redhead has been replaced.”

Robin reached for the phone and looked at it. “That _is_ Redhead.”

“I know! Carbon copy. Should make tailing her quite easy, though.”

“That’s a different woman?” Robin squinted more closely. Strike chuckled.

“Apparently so. I suggest we call her Redhead II.”

“Well, indeed.”

“But this one apparently is a member of a swanky women-only gym in Knightsbridge, and of course Mr Suspicious is convinced she’s not really. He’s tailed her to the door on a regular basis, but he wants more proof. Thinks she’s sneaking out somehow. I’ve emailed you the membership forms, it’s eye-wateringly expensive but he’s willing to pay for you to join so you can get in there.”

“Wow, perks of the job!” Robin said. “I can get fit while I work. Could do with some abs and thighs work now my diet consists largely of lattes and biscuits.”

They had become much closer since Robin’s divorce, but there was still absolutely no way he could tell her there was nothing wrong with her thighs, Strike decided. She might think he’d been looking. Which he hardly had at all, really, in the grand scheme of things. He cleared his throat a little.

“Well, you might be able to get a session in this week, depending on how fast they process your paperwork,” he said. “Looks fancy, pool, sauna, the works.”

Robin grinned. “Can I charge a swimsuit to the invoice? No way my current one will fit these days. I bought it—” _for my honeymoon,_ she had been about to say. “—when I was thinner,” she finished instead.

“Can’t see why not,” Strike muttered, burying his face in his mug in case his cheeks looked as hot as they felt.

Robin missed his discomfort as her phone pinged and lit up. Ilsa’s message flashed onto the home screen. “Showed Richard that pic of us at the cocktail do and he literally said wow!!! Did you tex...” The message scrolled off the screen. Blushing, Robin turned her phone over hurriedly. She’d deal with that later. She hadn’t texted yet, unable to decide whether she really wanted to, and whether she wanted to be someone who texted a guy. What would she put? Was she ready to be a modern woman expressing her interest? How did one even do that? Her irritation at her own hesitancy had stopped her.

She turned her attention back to her monitor, trying to hide her fluster. _Be professional, that’s for outside work hours._ She wondered if she’d have discussed her dilemma with Strike if he’d been her female boss. Or anyone other than who he was, really.

“Right, well, I’ll get this morning’s post and these emails sorted, and then I’ll start on filling in my swanky gym application,” she said briskly. “You can get the coffees when you go to pick up your suit.”

Strike nodded. “Will do.” He stood and ambled through to his office. He liked board meetings. He wondered as he settled himself at his desk what had been on that text that had made Robin blush. None of his business, but it had put him on alert somehow. Did she have a suitor?

 _It’s not your business if she does,_ he told himself. He sighed a little and opened the fraud case file. He needed to get his head around what exactly his client’s suspicions were, and prepare a list of questions for Ilsa.

...

Nick glanced at his phone and up at the building in front of him. He’d never been to Sian’s new flat. She’d had an evening drinks thing, years ago, at her old place, for a few colleagues and their partners, but she must have lived here some years now.

It was definitely the right place. He hunted down the buzzer list for her number and pressed the button.

Mark appeared at his shoulder while he was waiting for an answer and the two men exchanged greetings. Sian buzzed them in and they climbed the stairs together, chatting.

Sian greeted them at her door. She was dressed in yoga pants and a huge jumper, and Nick was struck not for the first time by how odd it was to see colleagues out of the work environment. Mark was wearing faded jeans and a jumper with elbow patches. Nick himself wore his usual trousers and shirt, having come straight from the office. He’d filled his time since the end of work peering at guitar chords on his phone and trying to make his fingers remember the shapes. He so needed lessons.

Sian had set up her home office ready for writing their paper, the desk cleared and two chairs set at either end, a large whiteboard on the wall wiped clean with pens at the ready. Mark emptied a rucksack full of files and papers onto the desk, and Sian laughed. “Think you’ve found enough background?” She asked, teasing.

Mark chuckled. “Until we narrow down exactly what we’re looking at, there’s plenty here to get our teeth into,” he said.

They passed a pleasant hour, the three of them. Mark gave Sian and Nick brief rundowns of the papers that had most caught his attention. Sian outlined her initial thoughts on the theories she was interested in following. Nick mostly watched and let his colleagues bounce ideas off one another, occasionally chiming in with snippets from his area of expertise that might help. Sian and Mark worked well together, and he could see why they wanted to co-write.

Eventually Sian called a break. She took the men through to her little kitchen. “Mark, you make some teas,” she suggested. “Tea bags there, mugs in that cupboard, fridge under here, teaspoons in that drawer. I’m just going to take Nick down to meet Chris.”

Mark nodded and began filling the kettle.

“Did you get your guitar?” Sian asked Nick as they set off down the corridor.

Nick nodded. “I did, mum and dad kept it all these years,” he said. “Had to take it to a music shop, get it restrung and tuned, but it sounds okay. It’ll do the job, once I know what I’m doing. I could never get the chord changes fast enough.”

“Do you play left-handed?” Sian asked, curious.

“Well, that’s one of the reasons I need a tutor,” Nick replied as they went down the stairs. “I can’t work out which is best to do. Famous lefties have done both. I’ve always played it right-handed because it’s so hard to get your head round the chords being upside down if you turn it over. But they asked me in the shop which way I wanted it strung and I wasn’t sure what to say. So I’m hoping to ask Chris’s advice.”

Sian nodded. “Here we are.” She knocked on the door to the guitar tutor’s flat.

The flat was the exact same layout as Sian’s, with the second bedroom that Sian used as her study being a music room here. Several guitars stood on stands or hung on the wall. Nick was given tea in a mug that jauntily claimed “You can never have too many guitars!” and one of Andrea’s biscuits, which were as delicious as Sian had promised. Introductions made, Sian went back upstairs, and Nick sat down with Chris in the cosy music room to explain what he wanted to achieve and ask questions about his guitar setup.

The two men got on well, and Nick was pleased to have met someone who was happy to take him to the level he wanted to achieve without imposing set lessons or too much structure on him. Chris was indeed almost fully booked, and with Nick’s work hours still being a little unpredictable with his intern to support, they agreed to work out an informal lesson schedule as they went and that Nick would pay in cash.

Chris was delighted with Nick’s secret mission, and had ideas for a few suitable songs. He also suggested Nick use one of the guitars already present for his lessons so that his own guitar could stay at the hospital and he didn’t have to trek back there with it in the evenings.

Nick left satisfied, with a date for his first lesson, a list of songs on a piece of paper and a couple of recommendations of books to buy. Excitement coiled in his stomach. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Ilsa’s face when he surprised her.

 


	3. The Fighting Temeraire

Robin and Ilsa arrived at the office at the same time on Friday morning and chatted as they climbed the stairs. The office was dark and locked. Robin fished her keys out of her bag and let them in.

“Cormoran’s been working late all week tailing this guy who’s having a fling with his secretary,” she told Ilsa. “He might be a bit late. Tea?”

Ilsa nodded, looking around the outer office. Her eyes lingered on the little coffee table Robin had set up to the far side of the sofa, with a coaster for mugs of tea and a box of tissues for mopping up tears. She pulled her gaze away.

“So you finally texted Richard, then?” she teased gently. “Took you long enough.”

Robin coloured a little. “I did,” she said. “We’re meeting tonight for a coffee and a look round the National Gallery.”

“I’m glad,” Ilsa said warmly. “He’s a nice guy. Settling in well. Everyone likes him.”

“Well, hopefully I will too,” Robin said. “Are you in a hurry? Do you need me to text Cormoran? He’s not usually very late.”

Ilsa glanced at her watch and shook her head. “No, I’ve got a bit of time,” she said. “Our meeting won’t take long anyway. Let’s have a cuppa.” Her eyes drifted back to the little coffee table.

Robin looked at Ilsa, and at the table, and turned to the kettle. She filled it and switched it on. “How’s work?”

“Yeah, good,” Ilsa murmured. She turned back to face Robin. “Gossipy. One of the partners is leaving, all very sudden, rumour is he’s setting up on his own. But anyway, it leaves a spot on the board free, so there’s loads of speculation.”

Robin nodded, putting tea bags in mugs. “You thinking about it?”

“Oh, goodness, no. There’s no-one remotely under forty on there, I’d never get a place. And it’s by invitation. I just hope they pick a woman, there aren’t enough women at the top of the ladder.”

“There never are,” Robin replied. The kettle boiled and she poured the water. Still no sounds from the flat above that would suggest Strike was awake. She wondered if she should text him.

Ilsa sat on the little sofa by the coffee table. “So, you looking forward to tonight?”

“I think so.” Robin still had her back to Ilsa as she squeezed tea bags and added milk. “I’m not sure what to say, but he said he’s just happy to look round and get his bearings a bit. We might stroll round to Leicester Square after.”

She carried Ilsa’s tea over and put it on the coffee table. Above them, they could hear the first sounds of movement. Ilsa grinned. “Corm’s up,” she said.

Robin nodded. “He’ll be a few minutes,” she said. She watched as Ilsa looked at her tea, and the box of tissues, before picking up her mug. “Ilsa, are.... Are you all right?”

Ilsa went a little pink. “Fine, why?”

“You keep looking at the coffee table funny.”

“Well, it’s new.”

There was a pause. Ilsa sighed. “Okay, I was thinking of the women who sit here, explaining their suspicions or waiting for you to give them bad news.”

Robin nodded, leaning back to rest her bottom on the edge of her desk, her mug cupped in her hands. “Sometimes it’s men,” she said. “And sometimes it’s good news. But yes, mostly women, and they’re mostly right. Sadly.”

Ilsa sighed a little. Robin put her head on one side.

“Ilsa?”

“I rang Nick last night to ask him to bring milk home, I forgot to put it on the Tesco order,” Ilsa said in a rush. “He didn’t answer. He said he was writing up a pile of notes and his phone was in his jacket.”

Robin stilled and looked at her friend. “Maybe he was.”

“I rang his office number too.”

“Maybe he went to get coffee.”

“I rang back half an hour later. Then I went to the shop and got the milk myself.”

Robin stared. “Ilsa, you can’t think...?”

Ilsa hesitated, then shook her head. “No, not really,” she said. “It’s just...”

“What?”

“He was odd, when I asked him about it. I kind of had this feeling he was lying. I don’t know, Robin. I know him so well, and something wasn’t quite right.” Ilsa shook her head again. “I’m probably imagining it.”

“I’m sure you are,” Robin said stoutly.

“Yeah. Just...” Ilsa glanced at the box of tissues again. “I bet they all thought that, too, in the beginning.”

Robin moved across to sit next to her friend. “But they’re not married to Nick,” she said. “Ils, listen to yourself. Nick won’t be messing around. Even if he wasn’t there, maybe he was doing something else. Maybe he just went for a sneaky pint on the way home and didn’t want to admit to it.”

Ilsa looked at her, worry in her blue-green eyes, her brow creased. “Why wouldn’t he, though? I don’t try to control him or make him account for his time. He’s perfectly free to pop to the pub without me nagging.”

Robin shrugged. “Well, there’ll be an innocent explanation,” she said firmly. “It’s Nick.”

Ilsa thought for a moment, and nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m being ridiculous. Thanks, Robin.” They could hear Strike’s heavy tread on the stairs now. “Not a word to Corm? I feel a bit silly.”

Robin nodded and patted Ilsa’s knee. “Of course,” she said. She got up and went to put the kettle back on for Strike’s tea as he came through the door.

“Morning,” he said. “Sorry I’m late, didn’t get in till nearly two.” He glanced around. “Ilsa.” He grinned at his old friend warmly and kissed her on the cheek. “Come on through.”

Robin smiled at them both. “I’ll bring your tea through,” she told Strike.

...

“The Fighting Temeraire,” Robin said. “I just love it. Look at that sky. I could look at it for hours.”

Richard stood back a little and admired the painting. “I’ve only seen it in books or as a print,” he said.

“It looks different on different days, in different light,” Robin said. “It’s my favourite piece in here. I pop in just to visit it sometimes if I’m passing.”

Richard nodded. They ambled on round the gallery, through the vaulted rooms, discussing various pieces and eventually emerging into the early evening light. Trafalgar Square was busy as always, filled with tourists, with youngsters climbing on the lions, with clusters of pigeons strutting about, with buskers and living statues seeking to earn some money. The slanting sunlight lent it all a romantic glow. Traffic chugged steadily around the outside.

“There’s a pasta place round the corner, if you’re hungry?” Robin suggested, and Richard nodded. They made their way there slowly, chatting. He was easy company, and his accent made her smile, made her think of home. He was better-looking in the flesh, with a lovely smile, but she had yet to feel a spark. _Get to know him,_ she told herself. _It might happen._

“It’s a good thing Ilsa had your picture,” he was saying now. “I had visions of having to wear a red rose to your white one so we’d know each other.”

Robin laughed. “And our ancestors would be horrified at us, meeting someone from across the Pennines,” she joked.

The restaurant was part of a chain, simple food, inexpensive. Robin had chosen it deliberately. She didn’t want the evening to feel too forced and date-y. She might only want to be friends, and anyway, if they were to become something more, it would follow. They were shown to a table and ordered some drinks.

“So, Richard, what do you want to see of London?” she asked.

He pulled a face. “Do you mind calling me Rick?” he asked, earnest suddenly. “I’ve kind of become Richard at work, somehow, which I don’t mind, but friends and family all call me Rick. It sounds so formal and weird to hear my full name in a more casual setting. Feels like I’m in a business meeting. Or being told off by my mother.”

Robin laughed and nodded. “Rick. I’ll try and remember. In fact...” She pulled her phone from her bag and opened her contacts list. “Let’s officially change you.” She scrolled through to find him, deleting “Richard” and replacing it with “Rick”. “There. You’re official.”

“Well, less official. That’s kind of the idea,” Rick said, and she nodded, grinning.

They chatted easily, making a mental list of the things Rick wanted to see or Robin thought he should see, over bowls of pasta and a beer each. Robin enjoyed her evening, and Rick seemed to as well. They strolled back to the Tube afterwards and went their separate ways with a wave and a promise to meet again next week.

...

Strike sighed and opened another beer. Friday night comedies were not holding his attention tonight. He quite fancied going to the pub for last orders, but that would mean reattaching his leg, which he had taken off gratefully after a long day touring seedy strip clubs. He didn’t think he could be bothered.

He lit another cigarette and gazed at the opposite wall and wondered if Robin was on a date. She had mentioned nothing, but there had been that text on Monday that had made her blush, and then as Ilsa had left this morning, she’d said “text me later” with a sly look and Robin had blushed again. And since when did Robin ever brush her hair or spritz more perfume just for the journey home from work?

He sighed again and took a long swig of his beer. It was nothing to do with him how Robin spent her Friday nights. But the thought of her at some fancy wine bar with a handsome young Matthew clone... He pushed the image away firmly. Not his business.

He looked across at his leg, resting against the wall where he’d propped it. He felt restless suddenly. Maybe he would pop out. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t as late as he’d thought. God, the evening was dragging. It wasn’t a problem he normally had. Nights off were precious, and he’d never minded his own company.

On impulse he picked up his phone and rang Nick. Maybe his old friend would like to meet for a pint. Arsenal and Spurs were neck and neck in the league, plenty to banter about there. But the phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

Strike hung up without leaving a message. He gazed at his phone for a while and contemplated ringing Shanker. Could he really be bothered to go out?

He lit another cigarette from the end of the previous one. Maybe in a bit.

An hour later, after he’d given up on the television and got into bed with his book, Nick texted. “Sorry, mate. Late meeting. See you soon.”

 


	4. The Ham and Leek Pie

“So, how was Friday night?” Ilsa leaned on the edge of Rick’s desk, coffee in hand, her eyes twinkling. It was early; not many of the cubicles were occupied yet, the hum of a day in the office yet to pick up. A couple of colleagues chatted by the water cooler. One of the more senior lawyers walked past with a coffee, raising a hand in greeting. Morning light slanted in patches across the desks.

Rick grinned. “Fine.”

Ilsa pouted. “Fine? That’s what Robin said.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” Rick winked. “You’ll not get any gossip out of me. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Or even tell if he kissed,” he added hastily as he caught the delighted gleam in Ilsa’s eye.

“Are you going out again?”

“Maybe.”

“Grr. That’s what she said too,” Ilsa said, frustrated. Her attention was snagged by the sight of one of the senior partners at her office door. “Ooh, what does O’Donnell want?” O’Donnell was the partner who was leaving. He was a tallish, slim man in his 50s with dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair that was definitely more salt than pepper these days. He hovered, uncertain, seeing the corner office empty.

Ilsa stood and headed towards him. “I’m not done with you,” she told Rick over her shoulder as she went.

“Yeah, you are,” he called after her, and she laughed.

“Mr O’Donnell,” she said as she approached. The office door stood open. Files lay in neat piles across Ilsa’s desk, set up ready for the week’s work. Claire’s desk sat bare, waiting for its owner to return from maternity leave. Ilsa missed her friend, but was thankful not to be faced with her pregnant belly every day. She’d done the duty visit when their second son was born and kept away since. Claire would be back soon. She hadn’t taken much leave the first time either, the decision having been made that her partner would be a stay-at-home dad and Claire, by far the higher earner, the breadwinner. It suited them.

The older man extended a hand. “Michael, please,” he said warmly. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all, come in,” Ilsa said, shaking his hand. “Coffee?”

“Please.” O’Donnell closed the door as Ilsa moved to the coffee machine and poured him a cup from the jug she’d made not ten minutes ago. She carried it to her desk, wondering why the door needed to be closed.

“I’ll come straight to the point,” O’Donnell said as Ilsa passed him his coffee. “Thanks.” Ilsa indicated the chair opposite and they sat facing one another across her desk. “You know I’m leaving soon?”

Ilsa nodded.

“Well, there’s a space on the board. They weren’t going to replace me, but I’m trying to convince them they should, and that they need a woman, and someone younger. It’s mostly older white men.” He held up his hands. “I know, I know, I’m an older white man. But I’m going, and I’m really keen that they use the opportunity to get a bit more diversity on the board. It can only be good for the company.”

Ilsa sat forward, her heart rate picking up a little. Was he saying...?

“I think you’d be a good fit. You’re dedicated, hard-working, and more importantly you know loads of people from different departments. You’d be an inclusive voice.”

Ilsa stared, delight in her heart. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “Thank you.”

O’Donnell shrugged. “It’s not going to be my decision, sadly,” he said. “But I have some ideas, and I have the ear of a few members of the board. Wondered if you’d like to go for lunch one day this week and discuss it.”

Ilsa nodded firmly. “I’d like that,” she said. “Thank you.”

O’Donnell smiled. “Like I say, I can’t promise anything,” he said. “Any day suit you particularly?”

Ilsa flipped open her desk diary and scanned it. “I’m in court Thursday and Friday, so earlier in the week is better.”

He nodded and stood. “I’ll email you when I’ve had a look at my diary,” he said. “The company needs people like you heading for the top. It runs the risk of being too old and fuddy-duddy otherwise. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll bring your mug back.” He reached out a hand again.

Ilsa stood too and shook his hand warmly. “Thank you,” she said again. _Stop saying thank you, say something intelligent!_ “I’ll, er, see you soon.”

“I’ll email you.” O’Donnell promised again. He raised his mug to her and left, leaving the door half open behind him. Ilsa dropped back down into her chair, her heart fluttering. A place on the board, and she was still in her thirties. That would be a huge step up.

...

“Good weekend?” Strike lowered himself onto the farting sofa, grimacing at its noises.

Robin nodded. They had takeaway coffees this morning that she had bought at the cafe opposite. A little treat, for no reason other than she had smelled the ground beans as she walked past and suddenly fancied a cup.

“Usual. Shopping, laundry, tidying up. You?”

Strike nodded. “Same, plus I decided to go and tail Mr Secretary on Saturday night,” he said. “I don’t know how much evidence the wife thinks she needs, I’ve got pictures of them all over London together. She’s just torturing herself.”

“Mm,” Robin mused, sipping her coffee. She glanced down at it. “That is particularly good coffee today. I wonder if they’ve changed the roast.”

Strike wondered if she had more reason to be tired this Monday than any other. _Stop it._

“But anyway, maybe she just wants to be sure,” Robin went on. “We’ve not got anything too compromising, just proof they’re spending a lot of time together.”

Strike snorted. “They’ll be sleeping together,” he said. “Or at the very least he’s trying to. He’s definitely trying to impress her.”

Robin looked at him over the rim of her cup. “They might not be.”

“Yet,” Strike said. He raised an eyebrow at Robin’s sceptical look. “Come on, Ellacott. It’s always what it looks like. Almost always.”

Robin sighed. “I know.”

“What’s in the diary this week?”

Robin turned her attention to her monitor.

...

Nick was enjoying his guitar lessons. He practised every chance he got. In his office he took five minutes here and there to pick up the guitar and at least practise making the shapes of the chords, even if he didn’t actually strum and make any noise while patients were around. He made himself do fifteen or twenty minutes each night before he left, catching a slightly later train home, and once or twice a week he managed to fit in a lesson, liaising with Chris by text and trying to gauge when Ilsa might be working late or seeing friends so that she wouldn’t suspect.

He hated lying to her, but so far he had only had to actually lie once, and was mostly managing to imply without telling direct untruths. It helped that he was genuinely having to babysit Sami quite a bit still, meaning that his hours were naturally more erratic of late than they had been in recent years. It still felt wrong to mislead Ilsa, but he focused on how she’d feel when he managed to create his big surprise. He hadn’t quite worked out the details yet. He’d have to smuggle the guitar home when he was ready.

He bumped into Mark occasionally on the way to Sian’s. The paper was going well, and Mark asked after his guitar lessons. Nick was confident he’d be ready to play for Ilsa sooner than he’d thought.

There was a lightness in his step as he strolled up the street to his house. He’d popped into Waitrose on the way and picked up one of their ready-made ham and leek pies. Lazy, but convenient. It could just go in the oven for a bit while he and Ilsa wound down from work.

Unusually these days, he was home before her. He contemplated going for a run, but it was already almost seven. He put the pie in the oven and went to shower.

Ilsa was standing at the breakfast bar going through the post when he came back down in his casual clothes. He smiled and kissed her cheek, sliding an arm around her. “Good day?”

Ilsa nodded, hugging him back. “Can’t get any detail out of Richard or Robin as to how Friday night went, though,” she said.

Nick grinned. “They’re toying with you,” he said. “Any interesting post?”

“Bills, the bank statement. The usual.” Ilsa put the pile aside. “Thanks for getting dinner.”

“It was my turn. I cheated a bit, sorry.”

She smiled at him softly. “I like that pie.”

He loved her soft smile. Nick leaned down and kissed her gently, and Ilsa slid her arms around his neck. His kisses were sweet and lingering, familiar yet still thrilling after all these years. _He can’t possibly be doing anything he shouldn’t,_ she thought hazily as desire rose within her like it always did. _We’re so right together._

Nick drew back a little and glanced at the timer on the oven. “Seventeen minutes,” he murmured.

Ilsa hummed and pressed herself against him, rocking her hips against the growing hardness in the front of his tracksuit trousers. “Think it’s long enough?”

“I think we can give it a go.”

Ilsa giggled and went to step past him. Nick grabbed her hips and held her in place. “Where are you going?”

“Um, upstairs?”

“Oh, I think we need to keep an eye on the oven.” He ran his hands down her work skirt to the hem and slid it up, pulling her hips to his again. “On the stool,” he murmured, his fingers toying with the sides of her knickers, easing them down.

Ilsa glanced over her shoulder at the French doors. _Lucky none of the neighbours can see into the kitchen,_ she thought as she stepped out of her knickers. She hitched herself up onto the stool and pulled her husband close, sliding her hands up under his T-shirt and enjoying the way his breath hitched as she ran her fingernails across him.

 


	5. The Crush

Ilsa met O’Donnell at a small restaurant a couple of Tube stops from work, vaguely wondering why he hadn’t suggested the deli round the corner from the office where everyone went. She was determined to be professional and not think about Nick. This was a business lunch and she wasn’t going to be distracted by the constant nagging worry about her husband’s odd behaviour of late.

She had finally got around to scanning the bank statement that morning as she always did, and she’d noticed that Nick was taking regular sums of money out at the cashpoint nearest to the hospital. What was he doing that required that much cash? And why didn’t he just pay for whatever it was on his card like normal?

But he had loved her so sweetly and tenderly last night, not the quickie she had expected due to their location in the kitchen. He had made full use of the seventeen minutes and then some, pressing her back against the counter, running his mouth across her neck as he moved within her, gentle but insistent, encouraging her on until she dissolved in pleasure with him. They’d giggled at one another over platefuls of slightly burnt pie after. She just couldn’t believe he would have eyes for anyone else.

O’Donnell was sat at a small table near the back of the restaurant. He stood and took her coat and Ilsa smiled and sat, tucking her skirt neatly under herself. A glass of red wine sat by his place, and when he offered her a drink, Ilsa wondered if perhaps she ought to order wine, if that was how these things went. But she wasn’t much of a day drinker, finding it rendered her sleepy and slow in the afternoon. She opted for a sparkling water.

The conversation stayed light, discussing the latest batch of new hires and Ilsa’s upcoming court case, until their main course arrived. Once the food was in front of them and O’Donnell had declared his steak perfectly cooked, he began to talk about the partnership.

“It’s not mine to offer,” he reminded her. “But like I said, I have the ear of some of the other board members, and they’ll take my recommendation seriously.”

He paused, toying with the stem of his wine glass, his meal forgotten momentarily.

“To be honest,” he said slowly, “I had another reason for inviting you to lunch, an ulterior motive.”

Ilsa felt a little wary suddenly, but tried to look interested. She twirled some more linguine onto her fork.

O’Donnell leaned forward. “Come with me,” he said in a low voice.

Startled, Ilsa dropped her fork. “Um, what?”

“Come with me. I’m starting my own firm. You put the hours in, Ilsa, you’ve got a good work ethic, some high-profile clients. And you’re a damn good lawyer. Come with me. I’ll give you your own team. I haven’t put the board together yet, but maybe there’d be a place on it for you, very soon.”

Ilsa gulped. This wasn’t what she had expected at all. She was happy where she was, secure in her job, knew the ropes, liked her shared office with Claire. But her own team...

“Er, I don’t know what to say,” she began.

“I’ll match your salary here plus five percent, and I’m giving all my initial team leaders, the ones who commit to the risk of a new business, a five percent stake in shares,” O’Donnell went on. “That way I know my teams are just as committed to success as I am. You can bring anyone you want with you for your team, if you can persuade them to come. And I know you can’t legally bring clients, but you can accidentally leave business cards about the place. They’re allowed to chose to change law firms.”

Ilsa shifted uneasily in her seat. Luring away colleagues, poaching clients, all for a risky startup... But a team of her own, a fat pay rise and shares. It was a huge step up. Was it worth the risk?

“I still don’t know what to say,” she murmured.

“Then don’t say anything. Think about it,” O’Donnell said. “I’ve got a few contacts I’m approaching at other firms, feelers I’m putting out. Let me know. But please do give it serious consideration, Ilsa. You’d be a huge asset to us.” He reached across and laid his hand on hers on the table, holding her gaze with his. His eyes were dark in his weathered face, his greying hair trimmed short. He was reasonably attractive for an older man, but his hand on hers was making her feel uncomfortable again.

Ilsa smiled and gently drew her hand away. “I’ll have a think. Thank you,” she said.

O’Donnell nodded and sat back with a cheeky grin. “I’m sure I don’t have to say I’d appreciate your discretion on this,” he said.

Ilsa laughed a little. “No, I understand,” she said. She picked up her fork again. Her own team...

...

Robin waved goodbye to Rick and got on the Circle Line back towards her flat. Rick was going in the opposite direction. She found a seat and sat down.

She’d had a lovely evening. They’d taken advantage of the fine weather to stroll around central London, through Westminster and up to Trafalgar Square, along the Mall to Buckingham Palace and back around Green Park, chatting all the while. They’d bought takeaway coffees as they went, and finished with a drink in a little pub near the Tube station, making plans for their next outing. Robin relived the evening in her head.

She stood and left the train, switched platforms, changed trains. She was almost home now. Two more stops and she was strolling along the street to her flat, musing on her new friendship.

Rick was lovely. He was a fellow northerner. They got along well. She felt relaxed in his company and she enjoyed their evenings.

_So why don’t I fancy him? He’s good-looking. He has a lovely smile. He’s northern. Mum and Dad would love him._

Robin sighed as she let herself into her flat. She gathered up the post from the mat, scanning through it idly. Junk mail, a catalogue. Nothing important. She tossed it on the little table by the door and dropped her keys into the bowl. She slipped out of her coat and hung it on the peg next to the table.

Her flatmate was out. It wasn’t all that late, but Robin made herself a cup of chamomile tea in her favourite mug, the one with the blocks of colour that matched the primary colour blocks of the tiles along the splashback in their little kitchen. She steeped the tea bag, idly thinking of her list of tasks for the next day, and then dropped the tea bag into the bin in the cupboard under the sink and took the mug through to her bedroom. She went through her evening routine on autopilot, washing her face, brushing her teeth, applying hand and face cream, changing into her soft white pyjamas, vague thoughts of Rick wandering around in her head. She got into bed and lay and looked at the ceiling.

She tried to imagine kissing Rick, but she just couldn’t. She couldn’t even imagine wanting to. _What’s wrong with me?_ she wondered. It had been like this with every guy she had met since her divorce. Nothing. No spark. The only man who didn’t leave her totally cold was...

Robin groaned and turned over, burying her hot face in the pillow. _You’ve been over this,_ she told herself sternly. _You decided, as far back as your honeymoon. He’s your friend and no more. This is a silly crush that’s only developed because you’ve not really been close to any men except Matthew, unless you count your dad and your brothers. It’s just...lasting longer than you expected._

She rolled back over and looked at the ceiling again. At least Strike appeared to be unaware of her embarrassing crush. Imagine if he knew that the minute she was single, she was attaching her wayward emotions to him, how humiliating that would be. It was so unprofessional. Robin was hopeful that he had no idea how her heart fluttered when it was just the two of them. As soon as this silly crush was spent, she could get on with being a professional person who could do her job well, date nice guys and not feel hot all over at the mere thought of discussing such things with her business partner. Until then...

At least Rick appeared to feel the same. He was friendly but he wasn’t particularly flirting with her. He wasn’t standing too close or touching her, and he certainly wasn’t trying to kiss her. She’d made a new friend and no more. Which was fine. But was this it for her, for ever?

She and Strike had a good working relationship, a good partnership, a good friendship. She wasn’t going to jeopardise that. She wondered vaguely why she hadn’t wanted Strike to know she had a date, why it had made her feel so awkward when Ilsa alluded to it in the office.

_That’s just professionalism. Keeping your personal life separate from work._

__

__

_Yeah, right._

In her head, Rick’s kindly brown eyes somehow morphed into Strike’s piercing ones, his gentle smile into Strike’s big grin. Warmth curled through her. Why couldn’t she feel like this about Rick instead?

Robin sighed and rubbed her eyes. She didn’t feel sleepy at all yet. She picked up her book. No use dwelling on it. These feelings would pass, and one day she’d meet a nice, friendly guy like Rick and would actually fancy him.

 


	6. Tower Bridge

Robin looked up anxiously when she heard Ilsa’s footsteps on the stairs. She stood and moved to the office door to open it. Ilsa had sounded upset on the phone. She’d rung to ask if Robin was alone - she was - and free for a cup of tea. Two mugs, freshly made, steaming gently, sat waiting on the side.

Robin opened the door and pulled Ilsa in and hugged her. Ilsa squeezed her back, her breathing uneven. “Corm?” she muttered.

“At a deathly boring finance meeting in the City. He’s got several this week. He won’t be back for ages,” Robin assured her. “Sit down.”

Ilsa sat on the sofa and Robin passed her her tea, watching her face carefully for clues. “What’s up?” She stepped back a little to rest against her desk, giving Ilsa space to talk.

Ilsa sighed. Her neat work suit and smartly pinned hair belied the turmoil in her heart. She shook her head, unsure where to start. Her eye caught the dull gleam of a two-pence piece lying under the edge of Robin’s desk, and she idly wondered how long it had lain there.

“I’m not imagining it, Robin,” she said at last. “Nick’s going somewhere in the evenings. He’s fitting it in around me, whatever it is, making sure he’s home when I am. But when he’s out, he’s not answering his phone. He mutters something when he comes home about long shifts or late meetings.”

She sighed again, shakily, tears starting in her eyes. “He’s changed his phone settings so texts don’t come up on the home screen any more. He never leaves his phone lying around, it’s always in his pocket. And he’s taking regular sums of cash out of the joint account, more than he used to. Whatever he’s doing, he’s not paying for it on his card.”

Robin’s heart sank as she listened. How many times had she heard this exact story?

Then she frowned. This was Nick. There had to be some other explanation. There just had to be.

Yet how often had she watched women sit on this very sofa, searching for answers, tear-filled eyes begging her without words to come up with some other, rational explanation for their husbands’ behaviour?

Ilsa shuddered to a halt and pulled a tissue from the box on the little table. “Look at me,” she said. “I’m that woman.” And she started to cry.

Robin put her tea down on her desk and went to sit on the sofa next to her friend. She hugged her tightly. “It can’t be, Ilsa,” she said. “It just can’t. Nick wouldn’t.”

“Then what _is_ he doing?” Ilsa wailed. Robin shrugged helplessly.

Ilsa scrubbed at her face roughly with the tissue. “You said it yourself, it’s always the same,” she said harshly. “Hiding the phone, mysterious work meetings, delayed trains, paying in cash. He can’t be doing anything regularly scheduled, it’s adaptable to whatever I’m doing.”

There was a long pause, both of them lost in thought. Ilsa mopped up her tears with more tissues. She took a deep breath. “I want you to find out for me.”

Robin pulled back, horrified. “Oh, no, Ilsa, I don’t think—”

“Please, Robin. I can’t ask Corm, they’ve been friends for years and years. I don’t want him to know. And please don’t make me go and sit on this sofa in some other office with strangers. I want you to do it.”

“Why don’t you try talking to him?” Robin asked gently.

Ilsa sat in silence for a long minute. “Because if he lies, it would be worse,” she said finally, quietly. “If he’s slipped up, if he’s having an affair and I confront him and he admits it, I might be able to get through it, get past it, find a way to forgive him. But if he looks me in the face and lies about it... I don’t think I could go back from that. I couldn’t ever trust him again.”

She looked up at Robin hopefully. “Besides, you’re not going to find anything, right? There’s going to be a simple explanation I can’t think of right now, and then I can forget all about it and not accuse him of having an affair and hurt his feelings.”

Robin sighed. Traffic honked down in the street. The light swelled and changed as clouds crossed the sky outside. “Oh, God, Ilsa,” she said at last. “I really don’t want to.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to ask. But please?”

They sat and looked at one another for long moments.

...

“Hey,” Rick nudged Robin’s shoulder gently with his as they strolled. “Are you okay? You’re really quiet.”

Robin looked at him. What could she say? _Sorry, I’m just trying to work out how to go about tailing a man I like and admire to ascertain whether he’s cheating on one of my closest friends, without my boss, who’s his best mate, finding out I’m doing it._

“Sorry,” she said, smiling. “Lot on my mind. It’s just work.”

They were walking along the river bank towards Tower Bridge. Its famous blue outlines were close now. The Tower of London lay to their left, and tourists milled about. They carried takeaway coffees from a stand they had passed a little way back.

“Anything I can do?” Rick asked.

“Not really. It’s just a tricky case I’m trying to fit in around everything else I’m doing.” _I’m going to have to get Barclay to cover something so I can pretend I’m on a case,_ she mused. “This is a good view of the bridge from here.”

They moved to stand by the low wall that ran alongside the river. Robin held Rick’s coffee while he took some pictures with his phone. The evening light glinted off the towers, and birds scudded across the sky. “Mum and dad are threatening to come and visit,” he said. “I’ll have to plan a trip for them.”

Robin smiled. “My parents like visiting too, though it’s mostly mum who comes,” she replied.

There was a pause. They idly watched a tourist boat, laden with people clutching cameras and phones, chug past. Rick turned to her, looking hesitant. “Robin...” he began.

Robin turned to face him. “What’s up?”

He looked at her, his brown eyes warm and earnest. “I hope...” He stopped and started again. “I like you, Robin. I enjoy our evenings. It’s nice to know someone else from ‘oop north’.”

Robin laughed and pulled a face at his deliberately terrible Yorkshire accent.

“I hope I’m not...” Rick stopped again and sighed. “Ilsa keeps fishing for details, wanting to know if she’s launched some great romance here. I don’t want to be mean, but I don’t—”

Robin put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, I know what you mean,” she said. “No spark.”

Rick nodded vigorously, relieved. “Thank goodness,” he said. “I would never lead you on, Robin, or pretend there was something there when there wasn’t.”

“I know, me neither,” Robin said. She held out a hand, formal, joking. “Friends?”

He laughed and shook her hand, and then on impulse they were hugging. Robin squeezed him tight. He smelled of shower gel, of coffee. His embrace felt like a bear hug she might receive from one of her brothers, comfortable, safe.

She drew back. “So, we need a serious coffee meeting to plan your parents’ weekend,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

Rick grinned, visibly relaxing. “We do. Are you free on Saturday?”

...

When Strike arrived back at the office from his latest finance meeting the following day, Robin was hoovering.

The meeting had been long and tedious. The offices were over-hot and stuffy, and with all his late nights tailing their CEO mark and his secretary, he’d been hard pushed to stay awake through the endless details and speculation. Only the discomfort of being trussed into a shirt collar and his suit, and a steady supply of coffee, had kept him from snoring through the latter half of the afternoon.

Robin had her back to him as she pushed the hoover round the outer office and poked it under her desk. She probably hadn’t heard him enter, and he knew not to approach her from behind - having been attacked twice from behind in her life, it was something she’d admitted to having trouble with, a lingering effect of trauma that Strike understood only too well.

Instead he moved round the room the opposite way until he was in her eyeline, and she glanced up and waved a little, miming that she’d just finish her task. Strike nodded and moved back round behind her to put the kettle on. He wasn’t at risk of startling her now she knew he was here.

Robin pushed the hoover further under her desk, and frowned as it began to rattle loudly, clearly having picked up something larger than it was used to. Before she could stop it, it cleared itself and went back to its dull roar. The machine was ancient. Strike had told her he’d inherited it when he rented the offices, found it abandoned in the cupboard in the hallway next to the tiny bathroom. He’d not had the money initially for a new one, and somehow manhandling the device and putting up with its foibles had become a part of their weekly routine.

She hoovered her way around the desk, swinging the cord over the top, and made her way towards the door of his office while Strike put tea bags in mugs and removed the milk from the fridge. As she went to pass him, he waved her down. Robin straightened up and flicked the switch on the machine, and the roar faded into quiet.

“I’ll do my office, I don’t expect you to do that,” Strike said.

Robin shrugged. “You do both offices when you hoover,” she said. “My turn.”

Strike pulled a face. “If we had an office in a block, we could use the communal cleaning service,” he said. “I’ve looked into getting someone in, but they all charge so much if they have to make a special trip.”

Robin nodded. “It’s not a huge space to keep clean,” she said. “When we next get a big invoice, though, we could do with a new hoover. This one’s all noise and hot air and not much use.”

Strike grinned. “Sounds like my finance meetings, or half our clients,” he said, and was rewarded with a giggle from Robin. He poured boiling water onto teabags. “Fancy a drink later?” he asked, studiously casual.

Robin busied herself untangling the hoover cord. “I can’t tonight,” she said, focused on her task. “Got plans. Another night?”

“Sure,” Strike said lightly. He poked the teabags idly with a spoon, waiting for the brews to steep. Robin switched the hoover back on and advanced into the inner office.

 _Another date?_ Strike wondered. He’d been pretty sure she was going out last night. Perhaps things were getting serious with the new boyfriend. He wondered how they’d met.

He sighed a little. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, even Ilsa - perhaps especially not Ilsa, with her constant hoping and dropping of hints that he now realised had stopped in recent months - but he had been vaguely imagining that once Robin was ready to date again that he’d know somehow, that he’d sense it, that maybe their relationship would change. But Robin was always carefully professional. There were flashes of warmth between them, and he didn’t doubt their friendship - she laughed at his jokes, grinned or winked at him over shared thoughts about clients. They got on so well. But she never asked him if he was dating anyone, and never told him if she was. Some subjects were just...off limits. They were friends and nothing more.

 _Which is good,_ he told himself as he squeezed the tea bags out and dropped them into the bin. Anything more would complicate life for both of them, complicate the agency that they were both so focused on building up. But sometimes he wished—

Strike shook his head, plonked Robin’s tea on her desk next to her computer and followed her through into his office with his own mug. He’d text Nick and see if he fancied a pint after work instead.

...

“Come in,” Ilsa looked up at the knock on her office door. It opened and Rick’s head appeared.

“Richard! Come on in,” Ilsa said, pleased to see him. Rick hesitated, thinking for a moment of asking her to call him Rick, but he didn’t mind keeping things more formal at work.

“How can I help?” Ilsa asked.

“Is this also Claire’s office? Claire Hollis?”

Ilsa nodded. “She’s on maternity, but she’ll be back soon,” she replied. “Why?”

“I’ve been assigned to a case with her. A fairly routine fraud thing, to settle me in, they said, and ease her back to work. There’s a few of us going to be on it. I’m to go through the outline of the case, prepare the basics, write a report and recommendations for her.”

“Wow, she must be back soon,” Ilsa mused.

“Two weeks, apparently.”

Ilsa clapped her hands. “Yay, it’s boring without her,” she said. “Claire’s good fun. This office is too quiet when she’s not here.”

“I just wondered if I could grab an old file of hers, see how she likes stuff laid out, and make sure I’ve got the right email address for her and so on,” Rick finished.

Ilsa nodded and bustled over to Claire’s section of the shelves. She scanned them. “I’ll find you something,” she said.

There was another knock on the door and O’Donnell stepped in. “Ilsa, do you have a moment?”

“I’ll come back,” Rick said, and made a tactful exit.

“Sure, Mr O’Donnell, come on in,” Ilsa said over her shoulder. “I’m just finding a file for Richard. The Hartpury case ought to do.” She reached up for the file on the top shelf.

“Allow me.” O’Donnell stepped across behind her and reached up for the file, grasping it easily where Ilsa could barely reach. He slid it from the shelf and pulled it down, and his left hand rested just momentarily, lightly, on her shoulder. Ilsa turned to face him and took a step back. “And I told you, it’s Michael, please,” he went on, his voice warm, his body still just slightly too close as he passed her the file.

“Thank you,” Ilsa said briskly, stepping back again and then turning back to her desk to hide the flush of her cheeks. He was quite attractive, she couldn’t help but notice again. But his closeness made her uneasy. “Coffee?”

“I’m not stopping,” he replied. “I just came to see if you had any more thoughts on my...offer.”

Ilsa stood and looked at him. In all honesty, she hadn’t thought about it much at all, beyond her instinctive reluctance to let go of her current secure position. She had mostly been fretting about her husband and his mysterious evenings out. It couldn’t be an evening class, it was too sporadic. Some kind of medical appointments? He’d have told her. In her darkest moments she was afraid of what Robin was going to find out.

“To be honest, Mr... Michael, I’ve been terribly busy,” she said. “But I’m interested in the idea. May I have a little more time?”

He nodded, his eyes warm, twinkling at her. “Don’t take too long, I go in a couple of weeks,” he said. He held her gaze. “I hope you do give it serious consideration, Ilsa. I’d really like to have you on board. I think we’d work well together.”

Flushing, Ilsa nodded. “I will,” she promised. With a cheeky grin he was gone.

Ilsa stood holding the Hartpury file, gazing at the opposite wall, lost in thought.

 

 


	7. The Navy Beret

When Nick emerged from the main entrance of the hospital at the end of a busy day, he didn’t notice the slim figure in a navy beret among the many people who streamed in and out of the hospital doors or waited at the bus stop opposite. He set off down the street purposefully, a happy spring in his step. He was enjoying his guitar lessons. He and Chris got on well, and the tutor was delighted with his progress and how hard he was working. He was nearly there, had chosen his song and was practising and practising. The ends of his fingers were becoming calloused by the strings. He was looking forward to an enjoyable evening, and Andrea’s biscuits were delicious.

Robin watched him go, and then slid off her seat at the bus stop and ambled after him, on the opposite side of the road. Every strand of her red-gold hair was tucked into the beret, and she’d dug an old coat he wouldn’t have seen before out from a box under her bed. It was tricky tailing someone you knew. There was a much higher chance of being noticed.

It was only a couple of miles to the block of flats. Robin loitered down the street, pretending to be on a video call on her phone, secretly snapping Nick as he pressed the buzzer and waited outside the door to be let in. She hadn’t dared get close enough to see which button he’d pressed, but it looked like it was about halfway up the panel.

Nick disappeared into the building, and Robin relaxed a little. She looked up the address on her phone, but it was just a normal block of flats. No businesses appeared to be registered here. She’d vaguely hoped that perhaps he was seeing a chiropractor or something, although she couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t just have told Ilsa that.

She glanced at her watch. Redhead II’s gym was closing soon, and she’d be off for drinks with her friends. Robin had been hoping to make it, but she’d had Barclay stake out the cafe opposite the gym just in case. She texted him to ask him to follow her and just confirm that it was the same bar, the same girlfriends, and he texted back a thumbs up emoji.

Robin waited, glad of the pleasant weather. It was almost exactly an hour later that Nick emerged. He glanced around in the evening sun, but didn’t notice the figure strolling away down the street, engrossed in her phone. Robin spotted on her front-facing camera the moment he turned away and strode purposefully down the road, and she turned and followed slowly. She kept her distance, following until she was sure he was heading home, and then peeled off and headed back to her flat.

...

Strike ran his hands through his hair, frustrated, making it stick up even more. He stretched, stood up from his desk, moved around his office a little to stretch his knee. He opened the window to let in the evening breeze and lit another cigarette. The ashtray was already full.

He glared at the papers spread out across his desk. Was there anything more boring and impenetrable than company finances? But there was fraud being committed, even he could see it. He just couldn’t quite work out how. He was going to have to admit defeat and pay an accountant to go over the books, an expense he’d been hoping to avoid.

He smoked and gazed out of the window, giving himself a break, his head full of figures. He acknowledged to himself that his annoyance was at least partly to do with the fact that he was stuck here when he’d wanted to go out. But with Robin on a date and Nick stuck late at work again, he’d decided to tackle this case instead. Perhaps he’d allow himself a solo trip to the Tottenham later as a reward.

An incoming email flashed up on his monitor as he sat back down. It was from Barclay, a forwarded message titled “Redhead II” and today’s date.

He opened it and frowned. “Strike - apologies, forgot to cc you. Barclay.”

Strike scrolled down. The original message was from Barclay to Robin. “Robin - same old, same old. Left her there. Sam.” Attached were pictures of Redhead II leaving her gym, walking along the street with her friends, chatting, arriving at a bar, going in, all time stamped at just an hour ago. A grainy shot taken through a window from some distance of the three women chatting over drinks, yoga mats hung on the backs of chairs.

Strike sat back and stared at his screen, hands behind his head. Why was Barclay tailing Redhead II? Hadn’t Robin just said the other day that it was pointless to pay Barclay to do things while she did nothing? So what was she doing? He’d been sure she was out tonight.

His mind drifted automatically to her secret boyfriend, a young man who was attempting to gain traction in Strike’s head. Suited, an accountant or lawyer, someone like Matthew, young and handsome and whole...

He shook his head. There was no way Robin would contract out work to go on a date. She was too professional. So what _was_ she doing?

He sat up suddenly, his almost finished cigarette falling from his hand into the ashtray. Mad Max.

He lit another cigarette with trembling fingers. She’d promised. She’d _promised,_ after Brockbank, that she wouldn’t take risks again. But clearly this was something he’d disapprove of, if she was hiding it. So she must be following Mad Max after dark, or to somewhere she knew he’d think unsafe. Was she in danger?

Without thinking he snatched up his phone and texted her. “Where are you?”

A pause, but he could see the three dots as she typed. He relaxed a little, drawing hard on his cigarette, waiting.

A picture came through of a mug of tea. He recognised the jaunty tiles in the background as the kitchen in Robin’s flat. “Safely home!” the attached message read. “R2 in the pub with her mates.”

Strike texted back a thumbs up, and sat back. The office had grown gloomy as the evening advanced. He ran a big hand over his face, rasping across a day’s worth of stubble, thinking.

...

Ilsa shook her head. “Means nothing to me,” she said. “We don’t know anyone who lives in that part of London. Or at least I don’t.” She passed Robin her phone back and picked up her latte. They’d met for a quick coffee before work at a cafe on Tottenham Court Road.

“I took a picture of the buzzers, roughly where he’d pressed,” Robin said, scrolling through and showing Ilsa her phone again. “But it’s a bit blurry, sorry, hard to make out the names.”

Ilsa squinted at the picture, but the writing was too small to read on a phone screen.

Robin took a deep breath. “There are no businesses registered there,” she said slowly. “No, like, chiropractor or anything. But not everyone registers. Could it be something he might be embarrassed to tell you? I don’t know, like crystal healing or something, you know? Something that someone in modern medicine would think a bit wacky.”

Ilsa gave a rueful laugh. “You’re clutching at straws even harder than I am,” she said grimly.

Robin sighed. “I just can’t believe it can be...what it looks like,” she said. Ilsa shook her head. “Me neither.”

The two women sat in glum quiet for a minute.

“How’s it going with Richard?” Ilsa asked presently.

Robin smiled fondly. “Good, but not in the way you think,” she said. “We had ‘the talk’ the other night. We’re just friends.”

Ilsa pouted and Robin laughed. “Can’t force a spark when neither of you feels it,” she said. “But I’m glad you introduced us. He’s lovely. I’ve made a new friend.”

Ilsa nodded. “I’ll get you fixed up one of these days,” she said.

“Maybe I don’t need fixing up. Maybe I’m happy being single,” Robin replied. “I was with Matt for over a decade. Give me time.” She pushed thoughts of kindly dark eyes, riotous curls and surly scowls from her mind. One day she’d be ready to date again.

Ilsa nodded. There was another little pause.

“Any more thoughts on O’Donnell’s offer?” Robin asked.

Ilsa sighed. “I can’t think about it properly,” she said. “I haven’t discussed it with Nick yet, and I kind of don’t want to. It feels weirdly false, being normal around him. I can’t accuse him of anything, but I can’t quite bring myself to just be me, either.”

She flushed a little, remembering her encounter with O’Donnell in the office, and Robin looked at her shrewdly. Ilsa blushed further under her gaze. “I think he’s flirting with me.”

“Nick?”

“No, O’Donnell.”

Robin felt a flutter of alarm at the rosy glow on Ilsa’s cheeks. “Are you flirting back?”

“No! Of course not. But, you know. It’s not unpleasant. It feels a bit weird, but only because it’s been so long... And hey, at least some man is paying me attention.”

“Ilsa...”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m hardly going to have a fling, even if Nick is. Two wrongs don’t make a right. But it’s...quite nice, to be flirted with again.”

Robin shook her head, hearing warning bells. “Are you sure this job offer is genuine?” she asked gently. “Don’t glare at me. It’s a known thing. These predatory older men, they sense when a woman is vulnerable, open to flattery when she might otherwise have had a clearer head. In all these years at the company, he’s never tried it on with you before?”

“No! Because he’s never had a job to offer me before, our paths haven’t crossed much.” Ilsa looked affronted. “Are you saying he can’t want me for my ability and professional value?”

Robin held up her hands. “I’m not saying that at all. But I met a lot of guys like that when I was temping, and I’m just saying maybe you’d think the same if you weren’t...thinking what you’re thinking about Nick, distracted.”

Ilsa sighed. “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t really want to leave the company. I just don’t want to say no until I’ve thought it through, and I can’t seem to gather my thoughts together to think about it properly. I don’t know if I can even remember how to make a decision without Nick’s input.”

Robin laid a hand over her friend’s on the table. “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” she said. “I promise.” Ilsa nodded sadly.

 


	8. The Pictures

Shrugging his coat on as he left the hospital, Nick set off down the street towards Chris’s block and his next guitar lesson. Ilsa had said she was working late tonight, so he had hastily arranged an extra, persuading Chris to fit him in. He was still deeply uncomfortable with the subterfuge, and the more lessons he could cram in, the sooner he could be ready with his surprise and put an end to the pretence.

Sian caught up with him as he waited at the first crossing, traffic rolling past. “Hi.”

He grinned at her. “Hi. How’s the paper going?”

“Slow, but getting there. Mark likes to do a lot of background work, get all the history. It’s good that he’s so thorough, I’d dive right in. But it is slowing us down.” The traffic eased to a halt and they crossed the road and carried on down the next street.

“That’s why it’ll be a good paper, you complement each other with your ways of working,” Nick told her.

Sian nodded. “How are the guitar lessons going?”

“Really well,” Nick enthused. “I’m getting there, Chris is pleased with my progress. Another couple of weeks and I’ll be ready.” He sighed a little. “I hate sneaking around. Ilsa and I always tell each other everything.”

Sian smiled at him gently. “It’s not for long, and it’s for a good cause,” she reassured him.

They chatted as they walked on down the next long residential road, turning left at the end. It didn’t take long to reach Sian’s block, and neither of them noticed the young woman in a headscarf waiting at the bus stop further down the street.

Sian fished for her keys in her bag, grumbling about the mess of receipts and bits and pieces. She found them eventually, and slid the key into the Yale lock next to the long panel of buzzers with its scrawled names and grubby buttons. She shoved the door open, then stepped back abruptly as one of her neighbours came sweeping out in a hurry, just as Nick was reaching forward to hold the door. She managed to step heavily on his foot, and gasped an apology, glaring round at the woman who had caused the collision, who was bustling away down the road, oblivious.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nick grinned as they moved forwards once again. “You’re not _that_ heavy.”

Sian pulled a face at him as the door swung shut behind them. “Do you use that charm on your wife?”

Nick laughed. “She’s used to it,” he said.

Sian waved at the post boxes lined up on the far wall. “Going to check my post,” she said. “Have a good lesson.” She moved away, inspecting her keys for the one to her postbox.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Nick took the stairs two at a time.

Sat at the bus stop, Robin gazed in dismay at her phone, flicking through the photo album. She hadn’t quite seen what had occurred as Nick and the blonde woman entered the building. She’d been too busy snapping pictures. Pictures that looked exactly like he had his arm around her.

Tears filled her eyes. This had to be something other than what it looked like. It had to be. She sighed. The blonde woman had had keys, presumably lived there. So she’d not be coming out again. Not much point waiting for Nick, then. Robin stared into space for a moment, thinking. She decided to head off to the gym and see if she could catch Redhead II, save Barclay tailing her again.

...

Strike dressed the next morning in the oldest, scruffiest clothes he owned. If he was going to try to buy drugs during the day at a strip joint, he needed to look suitably like a habitual user. He didn’t bother shaving or tidying his hair that he usually tried to dampen down a little in the mornings. He made his way down to the office and put the kettle on.

Robin arrived five minutes later, talking on her mobile. “Yup, see you later,” she was saying as she came through the door. “Bye.” Was it his imagination, or did she look a little pale?

Strike raised his eyebrows at her, holding up a mug in lieu of a question. Robin nodded, and he plonked the mug down and dropped a tea bag into it. He himself was having coffee, double strength, in the hope that it would lend him a slightly jittery air that might be useful for the morning’s mission.

“Who was that on the phone?”

“Hm? Oh, just Ilsa. We might meet for lunch,” Robin said vaguely.

Strike nodded. “Can’t stop,” he said regretfully, slurping his coffee as he assembled her tea. “I really need to make some headway on this drugs case, and then I’ll have to allow extra time at lunch to go upstairs and shave and change in case they need me in the City again later. What are you up to today?”

Robin gazed at him blankly for a moment. “Oh, er, Pilates with Redhead II this morning, and Mad Max this afternoon,” she said.

Strike glanced at her sideways as he passed her her tea. “You okay?”

She looked at him properly for the first time and blinked. “Yes, sorry, I’m fine. Was just miles away.”

Strike nodded. He hesitated, wondering whether to press her, but the phone rang, and Robin slid smoothly into work mode as she reached to pick it up, swinging her chair so she could sit down. “Strike and Ellacott, how can I help you?”

He still liked to hear her use the new name of the business. Maybe the novelty would never wear off. Smiling to himself, Strike set off down the stairs, battered trainers on, grubby cash deep in one pocket and his cigarettes in another, pondering on grabbing an espresso on the way.

...

Ilsa sat down nervously on the farting sofa. Robin looked grim. Without speaking, she laid the prints out on the coffee table.

Ilsa steeled herself, leaned forward to look, and blanched. She reached out, but couldn’t bring herself to touch. Her fingers trembled.

“That’s Sian,” she whispered. “His ex-girlfriend. She’s a doctor too.”

“Sian Edwards?”

Ilsa nodded.

Robin’s face twisted. “She’s on the electoral roll for the building. And there’s a Dr Edwards on that buzzer list I photographed last time. It’s her flat.”

Robin sighed. Ilsa ran her fingertips lightly over the images. Nick and Sian walking down the street towards the block of flats, chatting. Sian with her keys in her hand, Nick behind her. His arm around her in the doorway as he held the door, her back almost pressed to his chest. In the next they were obscured by a woman coming out of the door, but Robin had printed it anyway. Then the last one, Sian grinning up at something cheeky Nick was saying as they went through the door.

There was a long, heavy silence. Ilsa shifted her weight back a little and looked at the coffee table blankly.

“I’m sorry, Ilsa.” Robin said at last.

Ilsa sat still, frozen. “I didn’t really believe it,” she said. Her voice was a quiet monotone.

“Well, I still don’t,” Robin said firmly, sounding much more definite than she felt. She had to give Ilsa some hope. “There must be more to this than meets the eye. We have no real proof of anything. I’m going to try to get closer. Could it be work-related?”

“Then why not do it at work? And why not tell me?”

Robin shrugged, feeling utterly useless. “Let me keep trying,” she said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Ilsa nodded, still staring at the pictures.

“Um. Cup of tea?”

“No, thanks,” Ilsa said vaguely. “I need to get back to work.” She stood, smoothing her skirt down, and looked around for her bag, not seeing it right there on the sofa next to where she’d been sitting.

Robin stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Ils, stay a bit, please,” she urged. “You’re in shock.”

Ilsa hesitated, but then they heard Strike’s heavy tread on the stairs, coming in from his morning pretending to try to procure illegal substances. Robin inwardly cursed his timing.

“No, I’ll go,” Ilsa said. “Don’t tell Cormoran.”

“Of course not,” Robin promised. “It’s confidential.”

Ilsa nodded. Robin picked up Ilsa’s bag and passed it to her, and then hurriedly scooped the photos back into the file and moved to slide it into her desk drawer. She hadn’t worked out where to file it yet.

Strike entered and grinned at them both. “I have failed to buy cocaine yet again,” he joked. “Either there isn’t a drug problem there, or I don’t look enough like a junkie. And I tried really hard.” He indicated his tattered jeans and faded band T-shirt.

Robin gave a token chuckle. Ilsa, white-faced, didn’t appear to have heard him. “I’ll see you soon,” she muttered to Robin. “Thanks.”

Strike watched her as she left, then looked sharply at Robin. “She all right?”

“Er, yeah,” Robin said, moving back to sit at her desk, not quite meeting his eye. “Feeling a bit under the weather. Women’s problems.” _That always shuts men up._

Strike did indeed shut up, but he didn’t look convinced.

 


	9. Cornwall

Afterwards Ilsa didn’t remember her journey back to work, moving on autopilot from Denmark Street to her office. She scurried through the building with a determined air, hoping no one would try to talk to her, intent on making it to the sanctuary of her office.

She reached it without interruption and closed the door with a sense of relief. She put her handbag in its place on the shelves behind her desk and sat down on her chair, staring at the opposite wall. She felt numb.

 _It can’t be. It can’t be what it looks like. Think. It must be something else,_ she thought. She leaned forward, her elbows on her desk, her fingers pressed to her forehead. Those pictures were burnt into her mind’s eye. Sian was taller than her, prettier than her, skinnier than her, probably cleverer than her. She and Nick had always got on well, Ilsa had seen them chat and laugh together. And they had dated before.

_It can’t be. It just can’t._

There was a knock on the door. With an effort, Ilsa pulled herself together a little. She drew a shaky breath. “Come in.” Her voice sounded wobbly. She cleared her throat.

O’Donnell entered the room. “Afternoon, Ilsa,” he smiled. “I just wondered—“ He stopped and peered at her. “Are you okay?”

Ilsa gazed back at him. “What?”

“You’re wearing your coat at your desk. And you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um...” Ilsa stood, started to take off her coat, paused. Perhaps she didn’t want to stay. What was she going to achieve? How was she going to get through the next hour, let alone the rest of the afternoon or the next few days?

 _I’m going to have to talk to Nick. Tonight._ The thought caused a wave of reality to break over her and her stomach lurched. What if it was what it looked like? Despair swept through her heart and her eyes filled with tears.

“Hey...” O’Donnell said gently, approaching her. He touched her arm lightly. “What’s up?”

“Um...” Ilsa said again. She hunted in her pockets for a tissue.

“Here.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “It’s clean. Can I... Can I help at all?”

Ilsa wiped her eyes, her brain scrambling. She couldn’t talk about the real reason for her tears, she’d fall apart. She wasn’t sure she could even bring herself to articulate it. But what could she say? _Think of something._

“Um, my mum’s not well,” she improvised madly. “Could I, er, have a couple of days off to visit?”

“Of course,” O’Donnell said at once. “Take as long as you need. I hope she feels better soon.”

Ilsa nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He pulled her into a gentle hug, and for a minute Ilsa allowed herself to rest against him, comforted, his arms around her, his hand stroking her back.

For a moment, a split second, she could have sworn she felt his lips at her ear, his hand sliding just a touch too low down the back of her coat. A knock on the half-open door caused O’Donnell to step back hurriedly before Ilsa could wrench herself away from him. Rick poked his head round the door.

“Ilsa, can I just ask— Sorry.” Rick looked from one to the other and back again.

O’Donnell cleared his throat. “I’m here if you need me,” he said, and turned and strode out.

Ilsa shuddered, but she had more important things to think about at the moment. Whatever had or hadn’t just happened, it would have to be filed under ‘things to deal with later’. She needed to get out of the office, to somewhere where she could think.

Rick stepped forward into the room and hesitated. “Are you okay, Ilsa? Can I...fetch anyone for you?”

Ilsa stood, clutching the handkerchief, looking at him blankly. For a moment she longed for Claire, for Strike, for Robin, for anyone familiar. For Nick. Tears spilled onto her cheeks again.

“Um, I’m okay,” she managed, rubbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I’m just, er... I'm not feeling very well. I’m going home.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Rick said gently. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

Ilsa nodded, grabbed her bag and hurried out past him.

...

She sat for an hour on the sofa in her living room, cuddling the anxious cats who purred and butted her, cosying up and wondering why their human was making kitten noises, before she reached her decision. She didn’t have enough time to get her head round this properly before Nick came home from work. She couldn’t talk about it rationally yet. She couldn’t even think straight. And she couldn’t face the office tomorrow after what had just happened with O’Donnell. Had it even happened, or had she imagined it in her shock, her distraction? She needed to get away and think about everything. Right away.

Why not use the very excuse she’d come up with on the spur of the moment? Pretend her mum really was ill.

Decision made, Ilsa stood abruptly, dislodging Ricky who had been on her lap. The cats followed her down the hall hopefully, but instead of heading for the kitchen and their food bowls, Ilsa turned and went upstairs. Ossie watched her balefully, then wandered on to the kitchen to check the bowl was still empty. Ricky followed her up.

Upstairs, Ilsa threw some casual clothes and her toothbrush into a tote bag. She looked around, trying to force herself to concentrate on the mundane. Phone charger. Pyjamas. Back to the kitchen for snacks. She put down some more biscuits for the cats, who purred and wound around her legs, then bickered a little as they decided who would eat from which bowl today.

Ilsa grabbed the car keys from the bowl. She carried her bag out to the street, slamming the front door as she went, slung the bag into the back of the car and headed for Cornwall.

...

Nick frowned at his phone where it sat on his desk. Ilsa’s text was brief and functional. “Mum not v well. Popping down to see her. Pse don’t ring house, just mobile, she’s sleeping a lot. xx”

It had come through while he was in afternoon clinic, and by the time he could answer, she would have set off. He wondered why she hadn’t rung, and he wondered what could be serious enough to drag Ilsa to Cornwall so suddenly, yet not serious enough for her to try to ring him to quiz him about the medical side as she always did. She must have known he’d be in clinic. Maybe she just wanted to get down there. Not much he could do while she was on the road.

He took the opportunity to text Chris. He could cram in some lessons while Ilsa was away without needing to sneak around. He vaguely thought about booking a train ticket to St Austell for the weekend, but decided to wait until he’d talked to Ilsa.

Chris replied in the affirmative - a couple of clients were poorly, and he could do tonight and the next night, and maybe the one after.

As Nick was replying to firm up the plans, a text arrived from Strike, inviting him to the pub that night. Nick sighed. He hadn’t seen his old friend for ages, and in fact had turned him down twice in a row now, but the lessons needed to take priority. He wanted to stop having to hide them and get on to surprising Ilsa. Maybe he could be ready by the time she got back from Cornwall if he practised hard enough. He sent a deliberately vague reply to Strike, putting him off until next week.

He put his phone down on his desk next to him and opened the next file to write up the case notes. He frowned down at the words, not really seeing them. Then he picked his phone back up, reopened Ilsa’s message and read it again. It made him feel uneasy in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He sighed and turned his attention back to his work.

 


	10. Mad Max

Robin used the rest of her lunchtime to write up notes. She spent her afternoon tailing Mad Max, and then popped into the posh gym, ostensibly to book a pilates class. Redhead II was there at her yoga session. Robin lingered in the cafe to see where she’d go after she finished.

She spent the whole time worrying about Ilsa. There was no answer to any of her texts or calls. She had rung Ilsa’s desk phone at her office on her way to the gym. No answer.

Robin thought and thought, sipping her coffee, pretending to read something idly on her phone, waiting for Redhead II to finish yoga. She found herself longing to discuss everything with Strike, who knew Ilsa and Nick so much better than she did and would know what to do. But she had promised Ilsa. And even though no money had changed hands, she had made a file. Ilsa was a client now. She briefly considered that that actually made it okay to discuss her with Strike in a work context. But no, she had promised.

_What would Strike do?_ she wondered. But deep down she knew. He was the one who always insisted upon concrete proof, iron-clad evidence. So that was what she needed to do. She needed to somehow get inside that building and get evidence of Sian and Nick together, ideally doing something totally innocent that would explain Nick’s behaviour of late. So she had to go there again and hope he turned up. Without Ilsa here to tip her off as to when it was likely, she was fishing in the dark a little, but at least she knew the location.

She messaged Barclay and arranged for him to pick up Redhead II after gym, and headed for the office. She needed her beret and her old coat if she was going to Sian’s flat again.

...

Strike looked up, surprised, as Robin entered the office. He stood and moved through to the outer room and watched her rummaging through her bag of tricks. She pulled out a navy blue beret and laid it on her desk.

“What are you up to?” he asked, a small frown knitting his brows.

“Just changing it up,” Robin said lightly. “I tail Redhead II a lot, and she sees my hair in the gym, thought I’d better cover it out on the street. Forgot my hat.”

Strike said no more, but watched as she fussed about, emptying her coat pockets, hanging the beige coat on the peg and picking up her old one, pulling the beret onto her head.

Finally ready, she gave him a grin. “I’ll text you later,” she said, and left.

Strike stood and looked at the door for a moment, his heart beating a little faster suddenly. He had to decide quickly. She was on her way.

He grabbed cigarettes, wallet, jacket, and followed her.

He paused just beyond the front door of the office building to light a cigarette in case Robin saw him - he could pretend he’d just popped out for a smoke - but a quick scan of the street and he spotted the dark blue beret disappearing round the corner. She was indeed going in the opposite direction to that in which Redhead II’s fancy Kensington gym lay. Strike set off after her. She was moving briskly, and he had to work hard to keep up and try not to look like he was limping.

He cursed himself a little for the folly of this hastily conceived plan as he walked. Robin was extremely good at her job and very aware of her surroundings. If she was tailing Mad Max, and on alert as he’d asked her to be, did he have any hope of following her without her spotting him? He was going to have to keep such a distance as to risk losing her at every turn.

Somehow he managed it. It helped that Robin seemed distracted, wrapped up in her own thoughts. She clearly wasn’t looking for someone, rather heading for a specific location. Strike took advantage of a welcome pause while Robin waited for a bus to send a speculative text to Barclay. He simply put “Thx for taking R2 again. Hope not too boring.”

The reply was swift. “No prob. Cafe opposite does good espresso!”

So she was contracting out the easy, safe job in order to tail Mad Max. In the evening. Strike suppressed a surge of protective anger. He was going to have to find a way to talk to her about this.

The bus arrived and Robin climbed on. To Strike’s relief, she went upstairs. He jumped on at the last moment, swiping his Oyster card and moving to sit at the back. He grabbed an abandoned Evening Standard and held it up to read it, hiding behind it a little as rush-hour London rolled by.

What was Robin up to? Strike wrestled with his conscience, sat on the rattling bus in the evening sun. This was hardly trusting her and treating her as an equal, following her around, and he was running a very real risk of getting caught in the act. But his instincts told him something wasn’t right here. He tried to argue with himself that he had a responsibility as her employer to ensure her safety, but he knew that he was mostly intrigued to solve the puzzle, and more worried for her safety than he ought to be.

He almost missed her hopping off the bus on a long residential street. Only a couple of other people left the bus at the same time, and Strike was obliged to stay aboard or give himself away. He watched her through the rear window as the bus trundled on down the road. Luckily the next stop wasn’t too far, and he set off back towards where Robin had alighted.

Robin had crossed the road and was ambling very slowly along the pavement. As Strike watched from a distant vantage point, she loitered near a door, pretending to be on her phone, waiting. She cast anxious glances down the street occasionally, but always in the same direction, away from Strike. She knew which direction her mark was approaching from, then. A few minutes passed, and then someone emerged from the building next to her.

Looking for all the world like she belonged, still chatting on her phone, Robin grabbed the door, thanked the person and went into the building. The door slammed behind her.

Strike stood at the bus stop along the road a little way. He looked up the address of the block on his phone. Nothing special, just residential, flats. And this was a reasonably nice part of town, not somewhere he’d expect Mad Max to be doing his shady dealings. He sighed, lit a cigarette, waited. It was too risky to try to get into the building as well. It looked like it contained a lot of flats. Chances were he’d either run right into Robin in the lobby or miss her entirely if she was in one of the flats. He’d have to wait. He hoped he’d recognise Mad Max when he saw him.

It took Strike a minute to register that the figure approaching the block from the other direction was familiar. He was idly watching everyone who passed up and down the street, and felt himself give a physical start as he recognised Nick. Cursing under his breath, Strike turned away, moving behind a nearby van, stooping as if to tie a shoelace despite the strain on his knee. He paused for a few moments, and then slowly straightened, allowing his gaze to drift apparently vaguely across the street.

Nick had stopped outside the same building Robin had gone into. He pressed a buzzer, waited a moment, and went in. The door slammed behind him.

Strike stood for long minutes, staring in shock. Then his training reasserted itself. Many of the flats looked down over the street. He crossed to the front of the building, tucked out of sight directly below the windows, and moved along, away from the direction Nick had approached from, well away from the door. What was going on? Why was Nick here? Could this be coincidence?

The logical part of his brain told him not. They’d arrived within five minutes of one another, in a random part of town... Strike called up Google maps on his phone again. They were only about two miles from the hospital where Nick worked. Convenient.

He shook his head. _Don’t jump to any conclusions,_ he told himself.

He waited an hour in the slowly fading evening light, smoking and thinking. Nick emerged, stretched, shoved his hands in his pockets and set off back down the street the way he’d come, a spring in his step. Strike watched through narrowed eyes. Five minutes later, Robin appeared, crossed to the other side of the street and proceeded in the opposite direction, presumably heading for the Tube station two streets over that would take her to her flat.

Strike kept his mind deliberately blank as he made his way steadily back towards Denmark Street, a bus and then a slow stroll along emptying pavements. He went straight to the Tottenham, bought himself a pint and a whisky, and found himself a small table near the back.

He swallowed the whisky, set the glass aside and took a gulp of the pint. Finally he allowed himself to think about what he had just witnessed.

He mentally laid out all the facts. What did he actually know? Robin was dating, of that he was reasonably sure. And tonight she had met Nick. That didn’t necessarily mean she had met Nick the other times.

She was also being secretive about her dates, avoiding the subject, although Ilsa had appeared to know about that, so that part didn’t add up. But then Ilsa had looked upset in the office the other day. _Women’s problems, Robin said. She didn’t want me asking Ilsa about it, then._

He sat up a little suddenly. That first night Robin had been on a date, when Strike had felt restless and wanted to go out, Nick hadn’t answered his phone. Late meeting, he’d said. On a Friday. And again the other night when Strike had first suspected Robin was tailing Mad Max after work, Nick had said he was working late then, too. And then he’d claimed to be too busy to meet at all this week for a pint, in a weirdly vague text.

There must be a reasonable, logical explanation for Robin and Nick to be meeting in secret near Nick’s place of work. Strike just couldn’t think of one.

On impulse he picked up his phone and messaged Ilsa. “Long time no see. Shout me when you’re free, curry night? Cx”

He saw that a text had come through from Robin. A picture of a cup of tea to show him she was home. He sent back a thumbs up as he would normally do.

He sat and drank his pint and stared at the opposite wall, finally allowing the obvious suspicion to enter his mind. There couldn’t possibly be anything going on between Nick and Robin, could there? Surely not. Surely neither one of them was capable of that.

Strike sighed. The one thing being a private detective taught you was that people were capable of anything, and constantly shocked those around them.

His phone pinged. Ilsa.

“Hi Corm, that would be lovely. Just in Cornwall for a couple of days, impromptu visit, wanted to get away. Will be in touch when I’m back xx”

Strike stared at the message, reading and rereading it. So Nick was having secret meetings with Robin, and Ilsa was in Cornwall, presumably quite abruptly as she usually let him know she was going. And what did that mean, “wanted to get away”? Were Ilsa and Nick having problems?

He sighed again, heavily, and got to his feet to go and order another pint. It couldn’t be what it looked like. It just couldn’t.

 


	11. The Text

Robin was a little late to work the next day. She hadn’t slept well. She’d finally had a reply to her texts to Ilsa. Ilsa simply stated that she’d gone to Cornwall to think and would back soon.

Robin’s mission to Sian’s block had been fruitless. There had been nowhere to hide in the lobby, so she’d been forced to loiter in the stairwell, slipping though the door into the first floor corridor when Nick entered and allowing him to go on up the stairs past her. She’d then made her way up to Sian’s flat and tried to hang around and listen at the door, but it was early evening and people kept coming in and out of other flats, so she had had to pretend she was looking for an address. After the third person had given her a suspicious stare, she’d had to admit defeat and head back down to the first floor or risk being challenged. She’d wandered other corridors looking for anything that might help, but found nothing. Pleasant guitar music coming from the flat below Sian’s. The delicious smell of home-cooked curry in the corridor above. She’d failed to prove that anything was going on in Sian’s flat, but her results were inconclusive, she felt.

She took off her coat and hung it and her bag on the peg. She moved to the kitchenette to put the kettle on, still thinking. She’d reached a conclusion, lying in bed last night. Ilsa might not be ready to talk to Nick yet, but someone should. She’d go round there tonight, confront him with the evidence and see what he had to say.

She jumped a little when Strike appeared at her elbow. He grinned at her. “Not expecting me?” he teased, trying to appear normal.

Robin smiled. “Just miles away,” she said. “Sorry. Tea?”

Strike nodded. “I’m going to be in and out a bit the next couple of days. Nightclub guy wants me to visit some of his other lovely clubs, spread myself about a bit.”

Robin nodded. “No worries,” she said. “Me too, still need to track Mad Max down. He’s pretty elusive.”

They made tea in companionable quiet. Strike suppressed a sigh. Robin couldn’t be having some kind of fling with Nick. It just made no sense.

Next to them on the counter, Robin’s phone flashed up with an incoming message. She picked it up hastily, her thumb partially over the screen, but Strike caught a glimpse. “—ick mobile” read the sender, and the message “—eet for lunch? Grab a bite?”

Robin stuffed the phone in her pocket, her cheeks slightly coloured, and carried on making her tea without comment. Why didn’t she want Strike to know about Rick? she wondered. They weren’t even dating. It was just...complicated. She’d answer his text later, she had too much on her mind now.

Strike took his tea without another word and stalked through to his office.

...

“What’s up?” Robin asked, sliding into the seat opposite Rick at a little cafe round the corner from the Tottenham. It was a trek for him to come and meet her for lunch. She picked up the menu.

Rick leaned forward. “I just wanted to ask... Is Ilsa okay?”

Robin looked at him a little guardedly. “Why?” She glanced up at the hovering waitress. “Er, just a BLT, please, and a mug of tea,” she said.

Rick ordered an egg sandwich and a coffee, and the waitress nodded and moved on. He leaned forward again. “I get that it’s none of my business,” he said. “But she’s been really kind to me, helping me settle in, and she was upset the other day. She left early and hasn’t come back. Rumour in the office is her mum’s not well.”

“I know she’s gone to her parents’ for a couple of days,” Robin said cautiously. She didn’t want to lie, or blow Ilsa’s cover story, but she wasn’t about to tell him the real reason for Ilsa’s abrupt disappearance, either.

Rick hesitated. “Only...”

Robin looked at him. “What?”

“I thought I saw something.” Rick said uncomfortably.

“Like what?”

“With Ilsa and that O’Donnell, the creepy boss.”

_I knew he’d be creepy,_ Robin thought. _Ilsa always sees the best in people, not the worst._

“What sort of thing? Like...?” Robin hesitated, remembering Ilsa’s blush when she’d said O’Donnell was flirting, remembering the too-good-to-be-true job offer and the vague hints of a place on the board.

“Oh, God, no, not like that,” Rick said hastily. “She was upset, I guess about her mum. I walked in on them in her office, he was hugging her. But he—” Rick paused, rubbed his forehead distractedly, ploughed on. “He had his hand on her arse and his nose in her hair.” He shuddered. “She’s married, isn’t she?”

Robin nodded. “Not that that should make being perved on any less acceptable or more gross,” she said grimly.

“Well, no,” Rick agreed. “He pulled back when I knocked on the door, and just for a second she looked...revolted, disgusted? But she was upset, it was hard to tell. Maybe he really is a good friend and was just comforting her. I only saw a fleeting glance.”

He sighed. “But then she was gone, and the office gossip is her mum’s poorly and that’s why she’s off. I just wanted to say...”

He paused and gazed out of the window as the traffic rattled past. “My sister was harassed by a boss once and no one believed her,” he went on quietly. “She lost her job over it.” He looked back at Robin, earnest now. “If I did see what I thought I saw, and Ilsa wants to file a complaint, tell her I’ll back her up.” He looked down at the table. “And if I didn’t and I’m speaking out of turn, I’ll not mention it again.”

Robin slid her hand over his on the table. Why couldn’t she fancy this sweet man? “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I’ll find out.”

Rick smiled, his mouth a little tight. “No need to say any more,” he said. “Let me know if I can do anything, otherwise I’ll just forget I saw it.”

Robin nodded. Their sandwiches arrived. There was a pause while they tucked in.

“Hey, you busy Friday? Tomorrow?” Rick asked suddenly.

“Don’t think so, why?”

“There’s a party for work, local pub. They’ve booked a band and some food. O’Donnell’s leaving do, as it happens. Good riddance to him. I can bring a plus one, and I don’t really know anyone else who’s not from work. You fancy it? I assume Ilsa will be there, it’s kind of expected of the senior lawyers. And her husband, and you know them, right? And Claire who shares Ilsa’s office is coming, she starts back at work on Monday.”

Robin considered as she ate her sandwich. It all rather depended on how things went tonight. But it was a night out, anyway, and either everything would be fine and she’d have a nice evening with Ilsa and Nick, or everything wouldn’t be and Ilsa would probably like the moral support. “Sure,” she said lightly. “Where is it?”

...

Strike stamped grimly from club to club, smoking too many cigarettes and deterring anyone who might even think about trying to sell him anything illegal with his scowl and barely concealed simmering rage. So they were meeting for lunch now, in broad daylight. While Ilsa was in Cornwall “getting away”. He wondered if she knew, or at least suspected. She had always run to Cornwall when she was upset. He understood the draw. The sea air, the hills as old as time, they anchored you when the constant shifting, the ebb and flow of London, became too much. It was a while since he had been.

He oscillated between being angrier at Nick and angrier at Robin, with occasional spells of calm where he desperately tried to convince himself that there was a reasonable explanation. Planning a nice surprise for Ilsa? They’d have involved him. Robin working for Nick in some capacity? Again, they’d involve him. Robin asking Nick for medical advice? Nick was always pretty cautious about dishing out informal diagnoses to friends, advising them to see their GP and go through the proper process.

Strike sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. He stopped between clubs to light another cigarette, and marched on down the street. Walking at this pace hurt, but the rhythm soothed him, and at the moment the pain was almost welcome, grounding him, giving him something to be angry at. He was more furious than he ought to be, with both of them. He told himself it was his big-brother protectiveness of Ilsa that made him so incensed, but deep down he knew it wasn’t just that. It was his possessiveness over Robin too, a sense of ownership that he had no right to feel. That just made him angrier.

He needed to talk to Nick. Tonight.

 


	12. Octavia Street

Strike stood along Octavia Street from number 80, half obscured from the house by an outcrop of shrubbery from a garden down the road, smoking and trying to work out what to say to his old friend. He hoped fervently that there was some innocent explanation for Nick’s meetings with Robin.

He finished his cigarette and lit another from the end of it. He still couldn’t decide how to even open the conversation. It was unlike him to prevaricate, but he needed to get his thoughts in order. He idly watched a chaffinch hopping along a nearby wall, its beady eye watching him back.

Fortunately he spotted Robin before she spotted him. Strike stepped back behind the shrub he’d been lurking near, hoping he was far enough away that she wouldn’t see him.

Robin marched up to the door of number 80, lingered a beat, and rang the bell. There was a long pause - Strike couldn’t see in the door from this angle - and then she went in.

The detective ground his cigarette out under his heel angrily. Now what? March in after her? Wait a while and go, and interrupt them, catch them in the act? Or leave?

...

Robin took a deep breath, her heart thumping, and pressed the doorbell of number 80. _No going back now._

There was a long pause, and Robin found herself suddenly desperately hoping Nick was out, but then she heard him approaching.

He opened the door, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, running a towel over his head. “Robin!” he grinned at her. “Sorry, I just got out of the shower. Hi. Uh, Ilsa’s not here.”

“I know,” Robin said, trying to return his smile and failing. “It’s you I came to see.”

Nick frowned, puzzled. “Come on in.” He stood back to let her through, closing the door behind her.

Robin hung her coat on a peg by the front door and went through to the kitchen. She put the file on the breakfast bar, moving around to the other side of it to face into the kitchen. Nick went across to the kettle. “Cup of tea?”

“Um, yes, please,” Robin heard herself say. _Oh, yes, good plan, Ellacott. Accuse him of cheating on his wife, and then we’ll have a nice cup of tea together. For goodness’ sake._ But Nick was already making it, putting the kettle on, putting tea bags in a pot.

Robin twisted her fingers together nervously. She hated confrontation. _You’re doing this for Ilsa,_ she told herself.

Kettle chuntering, Nick moved over to face her across the counter. “What can I help you with?”

Silently Robin pushed the file towards him, rotating it to face him. Nick opened it, and she watched him carefully.

Ossie strolled past, tail in the air. Robin ignored him, her focus on Nick’s reaction.

Nick leafed slowly through the pictures. Pictures of him visiting Chris and Andrea’s flat, and pictures of him and Sian entering the building together. He frowned, not understanding.

Finally he looked up. “Someone’s been following me? Photographing me?”

Robin nodded. “Me.”

“Why?” Nick was very still. There was the faintest note of warning in his voice, a tightness in his jaw. The kettle clicked off and silence descended. Robin swallowed.

“Er, Ilsa asked me to.”

Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “My wife asked you to spy on me?” He looked sceptical, and annoyed.

Robin cleared her throat a little. This wasn’t going how she’d imagined. Cheaters knew when they were caught and usually backed down pretty quickly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Robin pointed at the pictures. “Well, what are you doing?”

Nick looked at her for a long moment, not even glancing back down at the prints spread across the open file. “How is that your business?” he asked quietly.

Robin almost took a step back. He wasn’t reacting how she’d expected at all. This wasn’t a side of friendly, affable Nick that she’d seen before. Anger flashed in his normally kindly hazel eyes.

“Um... Okay, let me start again,” she said. “Ilsa was upset because she knows you’ve been going somewhere in the evenings and not telling her. Hiding your phone. Taking cash out of the bank account. She asked me—”

Nick did step back, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s been discussing our finances with you, too?”

“Nick, please. You have to admit, it looks like...” Robin trailed off, uncertain.

“Looks like what? What does Ilsa think?”

“Well...” Robin was seriously doubting herself now. She fished out the picture that looked like Nick had his arm around Sian. “You can see what it looks like. Why are you going to her flat twice a week?”

Nick looked at the picture, and then up at Robin. “I’m not.”

“Nick, I followed you.”

“Well, not far enough,” Nick said crossly. “I’m seeing one of her neighbours, Sian introduced us. I almost never see her there.”

“So what _are_ you doing?”

Nick looked at her, his jaw clenched. “I still don’t see how this is anything to do with you.”

Robin reached a hand out, trying to connect. She’d put him on the defensive. “Nick, please, I’m trying to help,” she said quietly. “Ilsa’s upset.”

Nick’s eyes widened, realisation hitting. “Wait, is this why she’s gone to Cornwall?”

Robin nodded. “I think so.”

“You _think_ so? But why?”

Robin waved at the pictures. “Because she thinks... Well, maybe she doesn’t really, not truly, but it looks like... Like you and Sian...” She trailed off again. It was sounding more and more ludicrous the more she tried to say it. She gazed into his hazel eyes and waited helplessly.

Nick blinked rapidly. “Ilsa thinks I’m having an affair?” he asked finally. His voice sounded distant.

“Um, I’m not sure she really believes it,” Robin replied. “But she saw the pictures, and then she went to Cornwall.” Robin was starting to feel horribly guilty, although she wasn’t sure why.

Nick gave a huge sigh, and ran both hands through his hair now. “Why didn’t she just _ask_ me?”

“I think she wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe because it’s Sian? She is your ex, and she’s gorgeous, look at her. Tall, slim, graceful...”

Nick waved a dismissive hand. “Sian is pretty, sure. But Ilsa is way sexier, and she should know I think that. And that’s not the point, anyway. I love her. Why would I even look at anyone else?”

Robin nodded. “I know. I think she was hoping I’d find something innocent and she could stop thinking about it. But I came back with pictures of you with Sian.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Nick turned away and went over to the kettle. He poured water into the teapot. Robin watched him anxiously. She could almost hear him thinking. His lips were pressed tightly together.

He turned suddenly to look at her. “Have you ever followed me before?”

“No. I haven’t, I swear. And I wouldn’t again, I hated it. I’m sorry.”

Nick nodded and turned back to the tea. There was a long pause. Ossie wound himself around Robin’s leg, purring. Still thinking, Nick got the milk from the fridge, poured the tea. He put the milk away and brought the mugs over to the breakfast bar. He passed one across to Robin.

“Thanks,” she muttered, burying her face in it and breathing the steam. _What a mess._

“I’m having guitar lessons,” Nick said suddenly.

“What?” Robin was thrown by the apparent non sequitur. She put her tea down on the counter next to the file.

“That’s what I’m doing, in those pictures. Sian’s neighbour is a guitar tutor. I’ve got my old guitar in my office at work. I wanted to surprise Ilsa, sing to her.” He flushed a little.

Robin’s fingers flew to her mouth. “Oh, Nick, that’s so sweet,” she cried. “Ilsa will love that.”

“Yeah,” he said grimly. “That was the general idea.”

Robin pressed both hands to her mouth now. “Shit, Nick, I’m sorry,” she said sadly. “I didn’t know what to do. Ilsa and I were both sure you wouldn’t be... But it just looked and sounded so dodgy.”

Nick sighed, looking at the pictures again. He nodded. “I guess it would,” he said resignedly. “The sneaking around, paying cash, hiding my phone - Chris texts me randomly if he has a cancellation and he can offer me an extra lesson, and I didn’t want Ilsa to see and have the surprise spoiled. It never occurred to me that it might look like...”

He sighed again. “I’ll ring her later and explain everything,” he said. “Then she can come home.”

“No, wait,” Robin said, thinking. “You must still be able to pull this off. The surprise.”

“How? She’s in Cornwall.”

Robin thought for a moment.

“O’Donnell’s party,” she said suddenly. “Rick said she’ll be there, all the senior lawyers have to go. It’s tomorrow night. So she’ll be coming back tomorrow.”

Nick nodded. “She said she had a works do she couldn’t get out of,” he said. “But she’s going straight there. I thought that was odd, but I see why now.”

“It’s perfect.”

“It is?”

“Yes. They’re having a band. You can just go up first and do your thing, before the band starts.”

Nick stared at her in horror. “In front of everyone? No, no, the plan was it would just be me and Ilsa.”

“Oh, but think about it, Nick. She’s at the party, she’s maybe feeling sad, wishing she could talk to you... And then you appear at the mic and play and sing to her.” Robin sighed dreamily, imagining. “It’ll be like a scene in a film.”

“A film in which a guy who’s been having guitar lessons for all of a month makes a twat of himself in public.”

Robin grinned. “In the film version he plays perfectly.” The tight knot of anxiety in her stomach was loosening now that he looked less angry.

“I’m sure he does,” Nick said drily.

“Come on, Nick. It’s only like karaoke, except you’re playing the guitar too. You’ve sung in front of people before.”

Nick shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, but karaoke is supposed to be crap,” he said. “This isn’t.”

“You’ll be fine,” Robin said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Nick sighed. Then he looked at her sharply. “Wait, why will you be there?”

“I’m Rick’s plus one.”

Nick nodded. “Are you dating him?” he asked absently. He was worried about Ilsa now, about what she might be thinking and feeling.

Robin shook her head. “Just friends,” she said.

Nick sighed. “Can’t I just explain, get her to come home, do it here?”

“I think she needs to go to this do. And she thinks she needs to keep in with O’Donnell.” Robin hesitated. Was it disloyal to Ilsa to explain? But it was part of the context to Ilsa’s bolting to Cornwall.

“Why?”

“Well, O’Donnell offered her a job.”

Nick’s eyebrows shot up again. “God, she never mentioned that, either.”

Robin pulled a face. “Like I said, she wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t think the idea of the job had really filtered right through to her. And I’m not a hundred percent sure it exists, personally.”

“Why not?”

“Well... I think there’s more to O’Donnell than meets the eye. It sounded like he was, er...pursuing her quite keenly on the matter. And Rick thought he saw him being inappropriate. Only a bit, just pushing the boundaries,” Robin added hastily as Nick’s eyes flashed angrily again. “But that was also the day she left for Cornwall. I think it was just all a bit much, everything at once.”

She shrugged. “I’m guessing, I haven’t spoken to her. But I think it’s everything together, she just wanted to get away for a couple of nights.”

Nick shook his head a little, pondering it all.

“I’ve thrown a lot at you, sorry.” Robin finished her tea and put her mug down. “I’d better go.”

She started to gather up the photographs back into the file. “I’ll shred these,” she said, warmly.

Nick nodded and cast his eye over them again. They were startlingly clear. He shuddered a little.

“Christ, you’re good at your job. I had no idea I was being followed.”

“Um, thank you? And sorry again.” Robin pulled a rueful face as she headed for the front door. Nick followed, and opened the door for her while Robin slipped her coat on.

Robin stepped out onto the doorstep. “I’ll speak to Rick and see if he can clear it with someone for your little act tomorrow,” she said. “And I’ll ring you. I’m sure it’ll be fine, they all love Ilsa.”

She hesitated a little, looking up at him. “Sorry,” she said again, quietly.

Nick half-smiled. “I’ll get over it.”

On impulse she reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m so, so glad it wasn’t what it looked like,” she said, smiling. “Can’t wait to see Ilsa’s face tomorrow night.”

Nick nodded, and Robin turned and left, her heart light. As she walked down the street she pulled out her phone and texted Rick. “You free to chat quickly?”

Behind her, unseen, Strike turned and walked off in the other direction.

Robin got halfway home before Rick rang her back. She filled him in on as much of the story as was needed - namely that Ilsa would be at the party tomorrow, and Nick had been preparing a surprise and wanted to spring it tomorrow night.

“I’m told the girls in admin quite like you,” she teased, and he laughed, unperturbed. “Do you think you could find out who booked the band and if they’d mind if Nick borrowed the mic for one song before they start?”

“I’ll ask,” Rick said, and she could hear him grinning still. “I can’t imagine it’ll be a problem, though. They’d have to be pretty churlish to say no. Is it her birthday or something?”

“No, I just thought it was a good opportunity, what with the band all set up. Plus she really won’t be expecting it.”

“That’s true.”

On impulse, Robin suddenly said, “Oh, and can you think of a way we could get my partner there? My work partner. He’s Ilsa’s oldest friend, he’s the reason I know them. He’d love to see it, he’s Nick’s mate too.”

“I’ll find out,” Rick promised. “Maybe there’ll be someone who can’t make it, he can just tell the bouncers he’s them or something.”

“Thank you so much, Rick. You’re a star.”

Rick chuckled. “No worries,” he said. “I’ll go and charm the admin lot tomorrow. I might take them some cookies or something, there’s a Millie’s at my nearest station. They can’t say no then.”

“Ooh, good plan.”

They chatted for a few more minutes about this and that, and then hung up. Robin trotted up the steps to her flat, fizzing with excitement. She was so happy that the mystery was solved, that of course Nick wasn’t messing around. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Ilsa’s face in... —she glanced at her watch— ..less than twenty-four hours’ time.

...

Strike made his way back to Denmark Street and sat at his little dining table, smoking and thinking and wondering what to do. At least it was almost the weekend and he could have a couple of days to think. He wondered when Ilsa was coming back from Cornwall. He needed to talk to her.

 


	13. Party Day

Mid morning on Friday, Strike received a text out of the blue.

“Hi. Blast from the past! It’s Claire Hollis. Just heading back to work from maternity, obligatory works do tonight, bit weird seeing everyone again. Fancy being my plus one? Steve is stuck at home with the kids. Ilsa will be there, and I assume Nick. x”

Strike stared at his phone. He hadn’t heard from Claire in years. They’d dated for a while many years ago when Ilsa and Claire were sharing a flat, before Ilsa married Nick. They had parted amicably when Strike moved away, and had occasionally hooked up if they were both single when they bumped into one another through their mutual friends, one of the more memorable occasions being at a hotel in Cornwall on Nick and Ilsa’s wedding night - it was traditional, after all, for the best man to sleep with the bridesmaid, Strike had reminded Nick with a cheeky wink.

Somehow Strike didn’t think this was one of those times. Claire had been living with Steve ever since Strike had moved in with and subsequently split from Charlotte, so it had been many years since that option was on the table. It sounded as though she just wanted some moral support, and knew he’d know other people going.

On any other occasion he’d have said an immediate no to a works do without a second thought, but as he was typing his reply wishing her well and pleading pressures of work, it suddenly occurred to him that this might be a way to get to talk to Ilsa away from Octavia Street. She was presumably coming back to London for the party. Perhaps he could get her alone and talk to her before she went home. Perhaps Nick and Robin would use Ilsa’s prior engagement as an opportunity, he thought with gritted teeth.

He found himself replying in the affirmative, agreeing to meet Claire at the pub in question later. He sighed, and wondered if he had any clean shirts left or if this was going to necessitate an afternoon in the launderette. Being away from the office today would be a welcome relief. Robin was pottering about, humming to herself and being generally cheerful and happy in a way that he normally loved, but today made him want to slam doors and kick chairs.

...

“He’s coming,” Claire said.

“Ah, great, thanks,” Rick said. “Robin really wanted him there for some reason.”

They had met that morning when Rick came to introduce himself, having seen Claire setting up her desk ready for her start back on Monday, checking her hundreds of emails and scanning the case notes he’d written for her.

Rick was sworn to secrecy on Nick’s plan, but had been delighted to discover when asking Claire’s advice on how to get an invitation for one of Ilsa’s friends to the party that Claire knew him and was happy to bring him as her plus one in place of her partner, who was staying home with the new baby rather than get a babysitter. Claire had confessed that she’d nearly said no to coming at all, but felt she ought to put in an appearance, what with starting back at work imminently.

“Hm, maybe Ilsa was right,” Claire mused now, sipping her coffee.

“Right about what?”

Claire hesitated. “Er, are you and Robin...?”

“No, just mates.”

“Okay. Ilsa used to think Robin and her boss would end up together. She was convinced for ages, kept going on about it. But then after Robin got divorced and it didn’t happen... I think she started to think she must have been wrong.”

Rick nodded. “Interesting. Robin never mentioned anything.”

“No, I think Ilsa was afraid she was oblivious to it.”

...

Ilsa pulled in to the underground car park below the office, selected a space and parked. She sat for long minutes in the car, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. She was exhausted. The drive from Cornwall was long, and she’d hit the beginnings of Friday night rush hour as she traversed London.

She climbed out of the car and stretched, pulled her bag from the back seat. She was hoping that her stash of spare smart clothes in case of unexpected court summons would contain something suitable for tonight, or she was going to have to go in jeans and a T-shirt. There wasn’t time to go home for anything else, despite the fact that she was rather early, having allowed plenty of time for the drive.

Her stomach churned as she made her way up to her floor. She was desperately hoping not to bump into O’Donnell. She was reasonably sure she hadn’t imagined his inappropriate behaviour of a couple of days ago, and would rather not face him alone. The party tonight would be crowded, she could make polite conversation, go home and talk to her husband, and deal with O’Donnell ideally over the phone from now on.

She’d done a lot of thinking in Cornwall, a lot of walking on the beach, and she had decided two things. Firstly, Nick was incredibly unlikely to be having an affair. Even if it was Sian. She had gazed out at the waves and forced herself to admit her own weakness when it came to Sian. Had it been anyone else, she would have flatly refused to believe it. But there was something about Sian being taller and slimmer, and a colleague with lots in common with Nick, and his ex, that made her feel more threatened by her than she would have been by anyone else. It was illogical, yet it was true. But it made it no more likely that Nick was having an affair, and Ilsa accepted this, when she had had time to think calmly.

The second thing she had decided was that if he was being unfaithful, she was going to fight for her marriage. She and Nick had been married twelve years now, nearly thirteen. She still believed with all her heart that he was her soulmate, and she wasn’t going to allow him to throw it all away on a fling. She wasn’t going to allow herself to throw it all away out of pain and pride and fear. She was going to step up and put the effort in, and expect him to do the same.

And she’d deal with O’Donnell later. She was sure now that she didn’t want his job, even if it did exist. There was no way she was leaving the company.

Her heart started to pound as she realised her office door was ajar and the lights on. Someone was in there. For a moment she wanted to turn and flee back to the car, go home, talk to her husband. But no, she had to at least put in an appearance at this stupid party. She’d leave as soon as was polite.

She squared her shoulders and marched up to the door, pushing it open.

Claire was sat at her desk, coffee to one side, reading a file that was spread out in front of her. She looked up. “Ilsa!” The look on her face was one of pure delight.

Ilsa pushed the door to behind her, her heart filled with happiness at seeing her old friend. Claire stood and came out from behind her desk. They met in the middle of the room and hugged, and Claire wrapped her arms around Ilsa and squeezed her fiercely. “God, I missed you, buddy. It’s good to be back.”

Ilsa clung to her friend, tears spilling from her eyes, until Claire pulled away. “Hey, hey, what’s up?” she asked gently. “God, Ilsa, is your mum that poorly?”

Ilsa had forgotten about her official reason for being in Cornwall. “What? No...” Realisation hit. “That was a lie,” she muttered, hunting in her bag for a tissue. “Mum’s fine, I just needed to get away.”

Claire was relieved. She hadn’t seen Ilsa’s mum in some years, but they had spent quite a bit of time together over Ilsa’s wedding and its planning. She liked the older woman very much.

“So what’s going on?”

Ilsa half-laughed, half-sobbed. “How long have you got?”

Claire got no more work done. The two friends closed the office door firmly and curled up on their respective chairs with coffees, and Ilsa filled Claire in on everything that had happened in the last month.

Claire was adamant that an explanation would be forthcoming.

“I don’t care if it is Sian,” she said firmly. “Nick isn’t having an affair.”

“That’s what I want to believe,” Ilsa said. “But the photos...”

“Were they shagging in the photos? No? Well, then.” Claire raised her eyebrow, and Ilsa, comforted by her old friend’s confidence, relaxed a little.

“But Robin saw them, their body language...”

“Jeez, Ilsa, I wish I had been here to knock some sense into you,” Claire said fondly. “Your husband is crazy about you, and you know that. I don’t care what Robin thinks she saw. She works investigating people who have affairs, I bet the vast majority of people she meets are screwing around. Didn’t you say her husband cheated on her?”

Ilsa nodded.

“Well, it’s not surprising she’d think it possible. But I’ve been here since the beginning, remember. I’ve seen what you and Nick have been through together, and you’ve always done it together. And whatever you’ve been through, he’s never wavered once.”

“I know,” Ilsa sighed, suddenly feeling better than she had in weeks. “Now I wish you’d been here to knock some sense into me, too.” She smiled.

“That’s the spirit,” Claire said. “Now come on, we have a stupid party to get through. I haven’t had more than a sip of wine in months and months, but Oscar is on the bottle now I’m coming back to work, so I’m going to get thoroughly pissed on a glass and a half of Chardonnay.”

Ilsa laughed. “I’ll make sure you get in a taxi before I go home,” she promised. She shuddered. “Yeah, let’s just get this over with, go and be polite.”

She hesitated. “O’Donnell asked me to go with him. To his new company.”

Claire laughed. “Yeah, and me, and every other thirty-something woman in the building. Perv.”

Ilsa stared, shocked. She hadn’t imagined it, then. “I thought he was a bit creepy,” she muttered.

“Yeah, rumour has it the whole reason he’s leaving so abruptly is because it’s about to come out that his wife is divorcing him over a series of either minor affairs or accusations of inappropriate workplace behaviour. You didn’t at all hear that from me, though.” Claire winked. “I just happened to have coffee with someone from another firm who’s seen some paperwork. So keep it to yourself. It’ll be all the gossip in a couple of months.”

Ilsa pulled a face. “Good riddance to him, then,” she said.

“Yup. What are you wearing tonight?”

“I’m hoping I’ve got some court clothes that’ll do. I came straight from Cornwall.”

“Ah, we’ll sort you out. I brought two blouses because I couldn’t decide, so as long as you’ve got a skirt...” Claire stood and gathered up their coffee mugs, moving to put them back on the tray by their little coffee maker. “When did we last get ready for a night out together?”

Ilsa stood too and moved towards the cupboard where her clothes hung. “It’s been years,” she said warmly. She squeezed her friend’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Claire said. “Hey, guess who I’m bringing as my plus one?”

 


	14. Exposure

The pub round the corner from the law firm was one the company often used for parties. It had a large bar with plenty of tall tables and stools, a small dance floor with space behind for a band, and an area with long tables for food. The buffet would be served while the band took a break between sets, so the tables were currently bare. Dark wood was the general theme, with the bar, the lower halves of the walls, the tall tables and stools all made of it. The upper walls were painted a deep peacock blue. A selection of real ales on draft was available as well as cocktail options for the younger crowd. The company were frequent clients and paid well enough for the pub to be willing to close to the public on a Friday night. Two bouncers stood in the porch to make sure.

Strike decided to wait outside, smoking, until Claire arrived, not fancying trying his luck charming his way past the bouncers, who eyed him suspiciously. He was wearing his smarter work trousers, and a navy shirt that hadn’t needed washing but which he had had to iron. He hoped he was suitably smart.

To his surprise, Robin appeared while he was waiting.

“What are you doing here?” Flustered, Strike momentarily forgot his manners.

“I’m here with a friend,” Robin said, grinning. “He’s not here yet, I don’t think.”

Strike blinked a little. Not seeing Nick, then. Perhaps the mysterious boyfriend did in fact exist. Robin looked gorgeous as ever in slim fitting black jeans that made her arse look curvier than ever and an emerald green blouse that was loose fitting yet somehow clung just enough in the right places to make him flush a little and have to focus on keeping his eyes above her collarbone. Her makeup was carefully done but understated, a hint of gold eyeshadow and a soft pink lipstick that drew his eye repeatedly. He was cross with himself for noticing, for still wanting to kiss her despite what he feared he knew.

“How about you?” she was asking now.

“I’m here with Claire, Ilsa’s friend,” Strike said. “She texted me this morning.”

Robin nodded. “I didn’t know you knew any of Ilsa’s workmates.”

“I don’t, only Claire. She and Ilsa used to live together before Ilsa and Nick got married,” Strike said. Robin nodded again. Sometimes she forgot how long these people had all known one another. She was new, and much younger.

They stood, slightly awkward, while Strike smoked. Robin couldn’t think of anything to say, and Strike could only think of things he wanted to say but couldn’t work out how to express.

Their silence was broken by the arrival of Ilsa, Claire and Rick. Greetings were exchanged, introductions made. Robin squeezed Ilsa tightly as she hugged her, a question in her embrace, and Ilsa nodded a little as she drew back. She looked better, Robin thought, stronger.

Strike covertly watched the easy, relaxed body language between Robin and Rick. He didn’t seem like the boyfriend, though he was exactly what Strike had feared - a lawyer, younger, reasonably good-looking. Not as classically handsome as Matthew, but unfortunately (in Strike’s eyes) not as much of a twat either. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

The group entered the pub, and Strike noticed Robin looking around, subtly scanning the room for someone. Someone she clearly didn’t find.

Chatting, they moved to the bar. Even as they sorted out an order of drinks for the five of them, the pub began rapidly to fill, and soon there was a queue at the bar. They moved to claim one of the tall tables, standing around it with their drinks resting in the middle. O’Donnell had arrived, Ilsa noticed with a shudder, but was surrounded by other senior partners and board members. Champagne was being opened to celebrate his new venture.

Robin checked her phone. No word from Nick yet. He was due to sing in about half an hour. She really hoped he wasn’t going to chicken out. She’d told him to come to the alley at the side of the pub. She or Rick would let him into a back room through the fire escape.

Strike was watching Ilsa covertly, trying to work out if she looked like she had stuff on her mind, wondering how he could get her alone to ask her how she was. “How was Cornwall?” he asked her softly.

She smiled at him. “Gorgeous as ever,” she said. “Cleared my head a bit, went for lots of walks on the beach. Mum says hi.”

Strike took a breath. “How come you needed to clear—”

“Ilsa, did you get the Sauvignon or the Chardonnay?” Robin butted in frantically. She couldn’t bear Ilsa suddenly deciding to talk to Strike now she was thinking more clearly, telling him what they’d suspected, when it was all about to be resolved. Strike shot her a slight glare from the corner of his eye, but she resolutely pretended not to see it.

“Um, the Sauvignon. Why?”

“Try the Chardonnay, I think it might be nicer.” Robin slid her glass across. Ilsa dutifully took a sip. “Yeah, that’s nice too. I like Sauvignon, though.”

Robin nodded.

To her relief, Rick launched into a tale from the law firm he’d worked at in Manchester. Robin and Ilsa listened and Strike made an effort to look polite.

Claire nudged him. “You okay?” she murmured.

Strike nodded. “Might go out for a smoke,” he said. “I suppose I should have known tonight would be all lawyer talk.”

Claire grinned. “It was inevitable,” she said. “Good for me, I need to catch up.”

The conversation moved on. Rick wandered off and appeared to be talking to the band who were busy setting up. He fetched one of the tall stools and set it in front of the microphone.

Strike made another half-hearted attempt to talk to Ilsa, but Robin cut him off again. He frowned. Clearly Robin didn’t want him talking to Ilsa, but why? She couldn’t possibly know he suspected anything.

Ilsa and Claire were chatting away now, catching up, Ilsa filling her friend in on six months’ worth of office gossip and cases. Strike had just decided he would sneak out for a cigarette after all when Robin suddenly delved in her pocket and drew out her phone. This time Strike could see clearly, and he didn’t have any qualms about looking. The text was from Nick, saying simply “I’m here”.

Robin slid her phone back into her pocket. “Back in a mo,” she said. She crossed the dance floor to Rick, murmured in his ear. Rick nodded and grinned, and turned and headed for the door at the back of the stage marked “staff only”.

Robin returned to the conversation, her eyes bright, shimmering with suppressed excitement. Strike scowled. What was going on now? Presumably Robin was going to have to leave if she was meeting Nick. If they were meeting in secret, this was a silly place to do it. Ilsa was here, and almost everyone in the building would recognise Nick as her husband.

Something in her happy demeanour, her delight, her anticipation, infuriated him suddenly, and his temper snapped. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

Robin looked slightly panicked. “Um...” She glanced sideways at Ilsa and Claire, still deep in conversation.

Strike saw her anxious look at Ilsa and glared. “Is something going on with you and Nick?” he asked.

“Shh!” Robin looked horrified. “No!” she hissed.

“I know you’ve been meeting him, going out for lunch, going to the _house_ while Ilsa was away—”

“For Christ’s sake, Cormoran, keep your voice down!” Robin whispered fiercely, dragging him away from Ilsa and Claire by the elbow. “And what on earth are you talking about?”

Strike scowled. “Outside,” he muttered. Both bristling with tension, they marched outside, where Strike immediately lit a cigarette. Robin dragged him away from the door and the bouncers, and swung to face him.

“What the hell, Cormoran?” she demanded.

Strike was infuriatingly calm suddenly. He drew on his cigarette and looked at her. “I know you’ve been seeing someone, and I think it’s Nick,” he said quietly, annoyed with himself at the way his voice shook a little. “You met him in that apartment block a couple of miles from the hospital. You went for lunch with him the other day. You went to their house last night.”

Robin gaped at him, then with an effort she gathered herself. “Right. No, I didn’t, no, I didn’t, and yes, I did, but only to find out what _he’s_ been up to,” she said, ticking off on her fingers.

Strike drew on his cigarette again and waited.

“Oh, God, Cormoran, it’s a long story. Nick has been acting weird, and Ilsa had me follow him. It’s all fine, turns out he was having guitar lessons to surprise her. He’s here tonight to play for her, but it’s a secret. She doesn’t know. That’s why I wanted you here, so you could see.”

Strike blinked, catching up. “But Claire invited me.”

Robin nodded. “I asked Rick to sort it, I assume that’s what he sorted,” she said. She blushed a little. “The other dates I went on that you have presumably worked out I was having, they were with Rick. Ilsa set us up.”

“Oh.” Strike looked down at the floor to hide his disappointment. So she was seeing someone. Someone she was perfectly within her rights to go out with. A nice, northern guy, her own age.

Robin giggled suddenly. “So I’ve been following Nick, and you’ve been following me following him?”

Strike laughed a little. “Looks like it,” he said. “I only started because I was afraid you were doing something you shouldn’t be, following Mad Max somewhere dodgy.”

Robin shook her head. “I’m actually pretty cross you think I could get involved with any married man, let alone Nick,” she said quietly. “After what Matthew did to me.”

Strike flushed a little. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t really think it could be true, but it looked...” A flash of realisation. _That “—ick” on her phone was Rick, not Nick._

Robin nodded. “I felt the same about Nick,” she said. “Can’t possibly be true, but it really looks like that. I think this job must warp our thinking.”

“Yeah. Just because everyone we meet is cheating on someone or accusing someone of cheating, doesn’t mean the whole world is.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause.

“Anyway,” Robin said briskly. “Let’s get back. I don’t want to miss this.”

“Me neither.” Strike dropped his cigarette end into the gutter and followed her back inside. Robin pondered his assumptions and reactions as she smiled at the bouncers and pushed her way in through the big doors.

She could see Nick hovering at the door behind the band, guitar in hand, looking for her. She nodded to him, and moved across to where Claire and Ilsa were still chatting.

“Sorry to butt in,” she murmured, as behind Ilsa Nick made his way across to the stool at the microphone. “Ilsa, I need to tell you something. While you were away, I found out who Nick has been seeing.”

Ilsa paled, staring at her. “Who?” she whispered.

Robin smiled gently at her. “His name’s Chris. He’s a guitar tutor,” and she nodded over Ilsa’s shoulder. Ilsa turned, and her hands flew to her mouth, pressed to her lips like a prayer as she saw her husband grinning at her from behind the microphone.

 


	15. Nick’s Solo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to hobbeshalftail3469 for the music consultation :)

Nick flicked the microphone switch on, and leaned in to it, his eyes on Ilsa’s. “Ladies and gents, apologies for hijacking your evening. I won’t take up too much of your time, I promise. I’d just like to sing one song for you. This is for my wife, the gorgeous Mrs Ilsa Herbert.”

Strike leaned down to Robin’s ear. “She’s crying already.” His voice was amused and fond. Robin couldn’t answer, choked up herself. She nodded, and Strike gave her an amused glance too.

Afterwards Nick had no idea if the song had gone well. He hoped it had. He’d chosen Years From Now, and Chris had helped him with capo positioning to put him in a key that suited his voice. As he began, he was painfully aware of the many eyes on him - and what the hell was Strike doing here? - but once he got going, the only gaze he saw was Ilsa’s as he sang to her and mercifully hit all the right chords. She cried all the way through, smiling and sniffling, wiping her eyes, and Claire stood next to her with an arm around her.

Robin wiped her eyes too and leaned against Strike’s arm as she watched, tucking her arm through his. Strike was a little startled, unsure why she’d do that in front of her boyfriend, but Rick didn’t seem to mind. He was watching Ilsa and smiling too. The whole office was watching Ilsa, but she was oblivious to them.

“I know this,” Robin quavered between sniffs. “Wasn’t it redone recently?”

Strike nodded. “Think so,” he murmured back. “Dr Hook originally.”

They watched a little longer, then Strike gently, reluctantly withdrew his arm from Robin’s. “Just going to the bar while it’s quiet,” he said quietly. “That man’s going to need a drink when he finishes.”

Robin nodded. “Good plan,” she whispered. She glanced fondly across at Ilsa, who was still clinging to Claire’s arm and crying, as Strike slowly skirted round the crowd.

As the song came to an end, Ilsa pulled herself free of Claire’s hug. Her eyes locked with her husband’s as he lowered the guitar, she crossed the space between them, pushed the mic out of the way and kissed him, her arms around his neck. The room erupted in cheering and whooping and more than a few wolf whistles as she kissed and kissed him in front of everyone, tears still pouring down her cheeks.

Eventually Nick broke away, laughing, awkwardly hugging her with the guitar between them. One of the band stepped forward and took the guitar from him as he stood. Nick nodded and thanked him and moved across the dance floor, Ilsa still clutching his arm and trying to wipe her eyes and regain her composure.

Strike had returned to the tall table where Robin stood, and greeted his friend with a whisky and a pint. “I think you deserve these,” he said, grinning.

“Christ, yes,” Nick said, a little shaky now it was over. He hadn’t quite realised just how many people were going to be watching. He downed the whisky in one swallow, set the glass down and and picked up his pint, his right arm around Ilsa as she clung to him, a goofy smile on her face and her eyes still full of tears.

The hum of conversation began again now that the entertainment was over for the moment, and the band continued their setup.

“So how many of you knew about this?” Claire was intrigued. Robin looked around the group. “Well, it was Nick’s plan. I only found out about it last night, and then I told Rick so he could set up Nick playing tonight. And I told Cormoran literally about ten minutes ago because he’d worked out there was a plot afoot and was threatening to blow our cover.” She winked at Strike, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed at having nearly spoiled things.

Nick shook Rick by the hand. “Well, thank you for your part in it,” he said, grinning. Ilsa nodded. Claire nudged her fondly. “Have you lost the power of speech?”

“Nearly,” Ilsa said, her voice wobbly, gazing up at Nick. “What a wonderful surprise. So your guitar tutor—”

“—is an acquaintance of Sian’s, lives in the flat below her.” Nick said, nodding. Ilsa turned to Robin.

“And you worked that out?” she said admiringly.

Robin laughed. “Er, no, I went for the slightly-less-than-subtle approach.”

Nick winked. “I think you could call it the sledgehammer approach,” he said. “She came round to the house, laid the photos out on the breakfast bar and demanded to know what I was doing.”

Ilsa squeaked and put her hand over her mouth. “Go Robin,” she giggled. The band were warming up now, strumming chords, playing a series of keyboard notes.

“Indeed,” Nick said, raising his voice to be heard. He tightened his arm around his wife. “I’m sorry, Ilsa, I just didn’t think about what it would look like, sneaking around and hiding my phone, making excuses about work. I was so intent on keeping it secret so I could surprise you. If it makes you feel any better, my punishment was to have to play and sing in front of your entire office rather than just you in our living room, which was my original plan.”

Ilsa laughed, and then looked around as her phone rang. She frowned, hunting in her bag for it, and pulled it out.

“Oh, shit, it’s Mum!” she said. “I forgot to text her and tell her I got here safe, with everything that’s been going on. She’ll be so worried, she hates me doing that drive alone. I’ll just—” She gestured towards the door and hurried out of the pub, swiping to answer the call and lifting the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mum, sorry, let me just step outside, it’s noisy...”

“So how come you’re here, Claire?” Nick asked. “Nice to see you.”

Claire grinned. “You too,” she said. “I’m starting back on Monday so I thought I’d put in an appearance. And frankly, I haven’t been out properly in months so even a stuffy works do looked like a good night out. I had no idea it would be so entertaining!”

“It’s been pretty interesting so far,” Rick put in as the band finally began to play. “Conversation’s getting a little harder, though!”

The group moved away from the band a little, still trying to chat, and Nick went to look out of the window to see if Ilsa was coming back.

Ilsa hung up the phone having apologised to her mum and assured her that she was okay, that she had just gone straight to the office and bumped into Claire and forgotten all about ringing to say she’d got there. She promised to pass on her mum’s good wishes to Claire.

She slipped her phone back into her bag and paused for a moment, thinking. She gave a happy little sigh. Of _course_ Nick wasn’t messing about. Had she even really believed him capable of it? She wasn’t sure now. It seemed such a ridiculous idea.

She turned to go back inside, and jumped and squeaked a little. O’Donnell was standing right behind her, champagne glass in hand.

“What was all that about?” he asked, swaying a little. Ilsa eyed his glass anxiously, wondering how many he’d had.

“What was all what about?” she asked, stalling for time, trying to edge around him on the pavement. She hadn’t realised how far down the road she’d wandered whilst talking to her mum. She was out of sight of the bouncers as they stood in the doorway to the pub.

O’Donnell moved to block her path, standing too close. She could smell the champagne on his breath, a sour note. “With your husband,” he said. “I thought we had...an understanding.” He reached out and ran a finger along her forearm.

Ilsa stepped back a little, suppressing a shudder. “We did not have any kind of understanding, and I did nothing to encourage any such thoughts from you,” she said firmly. _Don’t let him control the situation._

She stepped off the pavement onto the road to walk around him and back to the pub, but he moved surprisingly fast for a man who’d clearly had plenty to drink, blocking her again, his hand closing around her arm.

Ilsa held herself as still and dignified as she could. “Mr O’Donnell, please let go of my arm,” she said.

“I told you,” he leaned in close, “it’s Michael.” Ilsa tried to hold her ground and not shrink away.

“You heard her. Let go of her arm.”

Ilsa almost didn’t recognise Nick’s voice, icy and full of daggers as it was. O’Donnell let go at once and turned, and Ilsa sagged a little with relief. She stepped back, trying to resist rubbing her arm where he’d gripped her. She felt contaminated, wanted to wipe the feel of his touch away.

Nick stood behind O’Donnell, very still, his eyes flashing sparks. His body language gave away no suggestion of violence, but Ilsa could see it in his eyes, his jaw, his stillness. A thrill of alarm with more than a hint of exhilaration ran down her spine.

O’Donnell was blustering now, trying to imply that Nick had somehow interrupted some intimate moment between the two of them. Letting him talk, Nick manoeuvred around him until he was standing next to and slightly in front of Ilsa, blocking O’Donnell from her. He cut over the older man’s ramblings.

“There is nothing going on between you that exists outside of your own head,” he said firmly. “I suggest you go back inside and enjoy your leaving do. The band are playing now and there’s plenty more champagne.”

O’Donnell hesitated. Ilsa could almost see him thinking, carefully, clouded by too much alcohol. He smiled tightly.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Ilsa,” he said. “We still need to talk about your new job, firm up details. Have you handed in your notice yet? Be a shame if the board were to find that out another way rather than from you.” And he turned on his heel and marched away before Ilsa could answer.

Ilsa sagged against Nick’s arm. “Thank you,” she muttered. “We need to go back in before he starts telling everyone I’m leaving. I never agreed to it, I just hadn’t got round to telling him I wasn’t going.”

Nick nodded, his jaw tight again. “So not only is he a slimy git, he’s now threatening you?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Ilsa laid a hand on his arm. “Please don’t do anything,” she said. “He’s an idiot, no one will believe him. Claire says he’s offered half the department places. The female half. Let’s just go back and enjoy the party.”

Inside the pub, Strike watched idly as the man whose leaving do it was lurched in the door and headed for the men’s toilets. Something in the man’s demeanour - drunk and belligerent - caught his trained eye, put him on alert.

“So you really thought I could be seeing Nick?” Robin was teasing him.

Strike sighed. “No, not really,” he said. “But I knew you were dating, and I guess I jumped to a silly conclusion when I saw you spending time together, or thought I did.” He forced himself to ask lightly, “So how’s it going with Rick? He seems nice.”

Robin smiled softly, and his heart twisted a little. “He’s lovely,” she replied warmly. “But it’s not. Not going, that is. We’ve had some lovely evenings, and I’ve enjoyed showing him round London. I’ve met a new friend. But there’s just no...” She trailed off, waving her arm vaguely. “No spark, you know? No oomph. From either of us. He’s never tried to kiss me, and I’ve never wanted him to. We’re just friends.” She shrugged.

Strike took a long drink of his pint to hide the goofy smile that was on his face suddenly. He hadn’t realised quite how disappointed he’d been that she had a boyfriend until she didn’t.

“That’s...a shame,” he muttered, but his eyes sparkled. Robin gazed at him, making eye contact, and suddenly she couldn’t look away. His dark eyes held hers and she was mesmerised.

Behind them, the door swung open again and Nick marched past, looking tense. Ilsa scurried over to join them and retrieve her wine. The moment between him and Robin broken, Strike turned to Ilsa. “Nick all right?” he asked with a slight frown.

Ilsa flushed a little. “Yeah, I had a bit of a moment with creepy boss trying to get handsy with me, so he’s pretty pissed off,” she said. “He got all possessive. It was quite sexy, actually,” she added dreamily.

Strike smirked a little. Robin leaned forward. “This the guy who offered you a job? O’Donnell?”

Ilsa nodded. “Yeah. According to Claire he’s tried to lure most of the young female lawyers away.”

Robin shuddered. “Creep.”

“Yeah, exactly. At least this is his leaving do, hey?”

“Whoa, hang on.” Strike, who was facing the corridor that led down towards the toilets, suddenly put his pint down hard on the table and moved surprisingly fast across the room. Robin and Ilsa couldn’t see past him to see what was going on, but there was a sudden, brief scuffle in the narrow space, and the next thing they saw, O’Donnell was on the floor with a hand to his nose and Strike had an arm around Nick from behind, a large hand planted firmly across his chest, pulling him away. Ilsa gasped, her hands over her mouth. People nearby turned to look. The band played on and people on the dance floor danced, oblivious. Blood dripped through O’Donnell’s fingers.

Nick wrenched himself free of Strike’s grip, his eyes almost black with anger, and Strike stepped back, holding his hands up. “Mate, come on,” he said quietly. “Leave him. Not the time or the place, eh?”

Nick glared at O’Donnell on the floor, and then at Strike, and turned and walked away. Ilsa hurried to him, and gently and expertly steered him back outside again.

Strike extended a hand and pulled the older man back to his feet. O’Donnell was furious. “That’s assault!” he cried. “I could sue him for that.”

“Yes, but you won’t,” Robin said firmly from Strike’s side. “Nick will attest that you were physically harassing Ilsa outside just now, and I will explain how you’ve been attempting to flirt with her and offering her non-existent jobs, and we have a third witness who’s prepared to go on record that you tried to sexually assault her in her own office. I’d say a bloody nose is the least you deserve, eh?”

O’Donnell hesitated, looking from Robin’s steely glare to Strike’s impassive bulk, and shrugged, pulling his clothing straight. “I’m not going to make a fuss at a works do,” he said with an attempt at dignity. “I shall consider my options tomorrow.”

“You do that,” Strike said grimly, and stepped back. O’Donnell went back into the men’s toilets, presumably to mop up his nose.

“Pleasant chap,” Strike said conversationally. “Another drink?”

Robin laughed. “Yes, please.” The small crowd that had gathered dispersed as they made their way to the bar.

 


	16. The Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating hike...

On the street outside the pub, Ilsa stood back and let Nick pace the pavement and work off his anger. “Fucking tosser,” he ranted. “He as good as said you led him on, that you—”

“Nick, it’s okay,” Ilsa said gently. “I know I didn’t, and you know I didn’t.”

Nick stopped, and dragged a hand through his hair. “Robin said he’s tried it on before?”

Ilsa nodded. “Kind of,” she said. “I was upset, in the office, about...well, about the pictures Robin took, and he hugged me. I wasn’t sure, it just felt like he was too close, too touchy-feely, you know? It’s partly why I went away, it was all too much to process at once.”

Nick stared at her for a long moment. “Did you really think I might be having an affair?” he asked quietly.

Ilsa coloured. “Not really, not once I got away and thought about it. I realised I just have a chip on my shoulder about Sian.”

“But why? Why her?”

Ilsa shrugged. “Because she’s your ex. Because she’s tall, and skinny, and beautiful, and confident, and intelligent, and you guys have so much in common. How many reasons do you need?”

Nick shook his head. “Ilsa Herbert, you’re hopeless,” he said fondly. “Those aren’t reasons at all. Yes, I like Sian, she’s a friend and a valued colleague and we get on well. And yes I dated her, casually, for a few months, over a decade ago. But you...” He stepped towards her, his arms sliding around her. “You’re my soulmate, and you have been since we were eighteen. You’re the one I love with all my heart. You’re the one I can’t live without, the one who’s so sexy it takes my breath away, still. There’s no comparison.”

Tears in her eyes, Ilsa hugged him tight, burrowing her face into his shirt.

Nick’s gaze darkened, angry again. “I wish you’d have told me about O’Donnell, though. I’d have tried to persuade you to take some action against him.”

“I know, but weird though it sounds, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure he’d done anything. It felt like he was about to, but Rick interrupted.”

She grinned up at him. “You dealt with it a lot better, though,” she said. “Not that I condone violence. Where did that come from?”

Nick shrugged. “He was threatening you, implying you were asking for it... I just saw red.”

Ilsa hugged him close again. “Well, the feminist part of me officially disapproves of your caveman behaviour,” she said with a cheeky grin.

“And the rest of you?”

She gave him a slow, sultry smile. “Thinks it’s kind of sexy.”

“Is that so?” Nick glanced around. The street was empty for now. He kissed her, backing her gently up against the wall of the pub while Ilsa slid her arms around his neck and kissed him back fiercely. Heat sang in her veins. He hadn’t been seeing anyone else, of course he hadn’t. She was the only one he had eyes for, and having him defend her like that was deeply attractive. She moaned and slid her hands up into his hair, pulling his mouth against hers.

Nick growled and kissed her harder, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, the adrenaline of the evening from the nerves of earlier and the sudden blind rage at O’Donnell coalescing into desire. He pressed his hips to hers and she rocked against him with a whimper. Fierce arousal coiled at the base of his spine.

Ilsa shuddered, sliding her arms down to his shoulders, pulling at him, longing to feel his whole body against hers. “I want you so much,” she groaned. “It’s hours till we get home.”

Nick groaned too, trying to resist the urge to grind himself against her in a public street. “I want you too,” he murmured in her ear. He rocked against her a little, aching for her.

He pulled back. “Come here,” he muttered, and grabbed her hand and pulled her along the front of the pub and into the alley down the side that led to the fire door he’d entered via earlier. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, then pressed her against the wall, still kissing her. The alley was narrow, too narrow for a car, and they were partly hidden from the street by the way the ornate pillars at the front corners of the pub jutted out.

Things became heated quickly. Nick crowded Ilsa against the wall, thrusting his hips against hers, and she arched her back and rubbed herself against his erection, moaning a little, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of his neck, her nails running gently across his skin. Nick’s right hand was in her hair, cupping her head, pulling her closer to kiss her more deeply, and his left moved to caress her breast through her blouse, pinching at the nipple, making her gasp and arch further back as pleasure jolted through her. She slid her left hand down from his neck, running it down his chest and stroking over his groin, finding the hard outline of his erection through his trousers and palming it gently. Nick groaned and eased his hips back just a little to give her more access. He pulled his mouth back from hers and dropped his forehead to her shoulder, panting as she rubbed and gently squeezed him through the cloth. “Fuck, Ils...” he muttered, and she smiled into his neck, kissing his skin, tasting his sweat, enjoying the way he shuddered at her touches.

His hand dropped from her breast, down over her hip to her thigh, then slid up and under her skirt and into her knickers. Ilsa jumped and squeaked a little. This wasn’t like her normally reserved husband. They were still out in public, albeit partly hidden. Another jolt of desire shook her as his fingers explored.

“Mm, definitely not disapproving, I’d say. More like completely horny,” Nick muttered, grinning. Ilsa groaned with need as he caressed her, stroking her swollen arousal and tracing circles around her clit. She whimpered with desire and pleasure, her hand tightening on his cock, drawing another groan from him.

“What are we doing?” Ilsa murmured at the sky, her head tipping back and her hips canting forward against his hand.

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to stop,” Nick growled roughly into her neck, his fingers sliding through her slick folds, his hips rocking too as she rubbed him in a steady rhythm. He pressed forward into her hand, desperate for more friction.

“I don’t think I can stop,” Ilsa gasped. Her other hand slid down between them to pull at his belt and trousers, fumbling them undone. Nick moaned into her ear as she closed her hand around his erection and eased him free, squeezing and stroking, sending pulses of pleasure through him. He rocked his hips against her, thrusting into her fist, and his hand pressed forward, two fingers sliding into her easily, she was so slick with arousal. Ilsa moaned with delight, sliding her feet apart a little to give him more access, pushing her hips back at him.

He kissed her again, and then pulled back, his eyes dark with desire, his breath heaving as she worked him with her hand, sliding up and down his length, flexing her wrist in the way she knew drove him wild. His fingers slid and thrust, and Ilsa whimpered again.

“I don’t have eyes for anyone else,” he panted into her ear as she took him to the edge. “You’re _mine_. God, don’t stop...” He thrust his hand harder against her, his fingers curling,and Ilsa gave a little cry of pleasure that she tried to bite back. “And you’re mine,” she replied shakily, her face buried in his shoulder as his fingers worked inside her. “Fuck, Nick, that’s so good, I—” Then with a deep groan she dissolved, her orgasm rolling through her, her muscles clenching on his fingers and her knees threatening to buckle beneath her.

Nick grunted, thrilling to the feel of her coming undone for him, his hips stuttering against her. Ilsa twisted her wrist a little more, and with a low cry he came too, thrusting into the tight circle of her fist, spilling over her hand and thighs, gradually stilling.

Panting, they clung to one another, coming down off their high. Nick kissed her neck and drew back slowly to kiss her cheek and then her mouth. Ilsa was laughing now, exhilarated. She kissed him back fiercely.

“Well, that was classy, jerking each other off in an alley down the side of a pub,” she murmured, still giggling. Nick chuckled as he eased away and began to do his trousers back up.

“Indeed,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse with pleasure still. He kissed her again. “I liked it, though. It was...new. Can we do that again?”

Ilsa grinned, wriggling to pull her skirt straight. “Depends on how many people you’re planning on decking to defend my honour.” She picked up her dropped bag and hunted for a tissue to wipe her hand and thighs.

Nick pulled a face. “I hope I never have to,” he said. “I’m sure I can find other ways to convince you of my manly charms.”

Ilsa hugged him. “I don’t need convincing,” she murmured. “Come on, before they send out a search party.”

“In a minute,” he said, kissing her again, languorous now.

In the pub, Strike and Robin stood by a window in the bar, watching the band and the people on the dance floor, sipping their fresh drinks.

“Some evening,” Strike remarked.

Robin grinned. “I know! So glad Ilsa and Nick are all sorted out and loved up again. Did you see the way she was looking at him?” She sighed dreamily.

Strike nodded. “And the way he behaved. I’ve never seen him get like that, I don’t think he’s ever hit anyone in all the years I’ve known him.” He laughed. “He’s stronger than he looks, too. Good thing I didn’t try and thump him.”

He sipped his pint, and then stilled. Robin was looking up at him appraisingly. She put her wine down on the windowsill.

“And why would you try to thump him?” she asked quietly.

Strike hesitated, caught out. “Er...” he stuttered. “Well, you know, Ilsa’s like a sister to me, I was angry...” He turned away a little, put his pint down next to her wine, ducking his head to hide his discomfort.

Robin stared at him, at his confusion and dissembling. She remembered the conclusions he’d jumped to, his irritability in the office, the look in his eyes when she’d told him she and Rick were only friends.

_This isn’t an embarrassing, unrequited crush. He feels the same._

“Cormoran, you weren’t angry,” she said suddenly, and he looked back up at her. “You were jealous.”

Strike opened his mouth to protest, saw the way she was looking at him and closed it again. He looked at her for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he admitted at last, flushing slightly.

Robin stepped up to him, hooked an arm around his neck and kissed him.

For just a moment Strike froze, unable to believe what was happening. Her lips pressed against his, soft and warm, and then parted just a little. Suddenly he was kissing her back, his mouth moving on hers, his hands rising tentatively to rest on her waist. He kissed her gently, his lips parting too and his tongue coming forwards to brush against hers, his heart thrilling to the quiver of her body as she pressed a little closer. It was everything he’d hoped, imagined, dreamed.

A little dishevelled, Nick and Ilsa pushed the door open and entered the pub again. “Are you bringing that guitar home?” she asked him softly.

Nick smiled at her. “I am,” he said. “It’s mine, it was in mum and dad’s attic all these years.” He leaned down to press a swift kiss to her lips. “Shall we just go? I can’t imagine I’m too welcome around here at the moment.”

Ilsa gave him a stern look. “If anyone tries to suggest so, send them to me,” she said. “It seems quite a few people know what O’Donnell is like. I think you won’t meet too much disapproval.” She smiled up at him. “But I guess I’ve put in an appearance,” she said. “Maybe a quick dance?” She slid her arm around him.

Nick smiled down at her, and Ilsa grinned back - and then gasped, clutching his arm, her attention suddenly caught. “Look!” she hissed, pointing at Strike and Robin snogging by the window, oblivious to the party going on around them, to the amused glances they were getting from Rick and Claire.

Nick stuck two fingers in his mouth and loudly whistled across the bar. Strike and Robin broke apart, and Robin, blushing, buried her face in the front of his shirt. Strike turned to give his friend a mock glare, but he was grinning with delight, which rather spoiled the effect.

Ilsa also gave her husband a glare, but he just licked the fingers that were in his mouth and winked at her. Ilsa, suddenly remembering where those fingers had just been, went utterly scarlet. “Nicholas Herbert!” she whispered fiercely.

He laughed. “Let’s get another drink,” he said, his arm around her shoulders. Ilsa leaned in to him and nodded, nuzzling against him fondly.

On the other side of the bar, Rick turned to Claire. “Are all your office parties like this? They make our Manchester ones look positively tame.”

Claire laughed. “God, no. I have no idea what’s got into everyone tonight. I’ve only been off for six months. I think they must have put something in the coffee!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone recognise O’Donnell? To be fair, I think you’d probably have to be British and at least forty...
> 
> This fic has its own fantastic mood board, [here](https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/184227463885/look-you-guys-adiscoveryofmoodboards-made-this) :)


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